


Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 1

by SeHousman



Series: Fire Emblem: Tellius Saga [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Begnion, Crimea - Freeform, Crimean War, Daein, Gallia, Goldoa, Kilvas, Laguz, Laguz Alliance - Freeform, M/M, Mad King's War, Phoenicis, Serenes, Tellius, beorc, branded, hatari, parentless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 183,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeHousman/pseuds/SeHousman
Series: Fire Emblem: Tellius Saga [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691884
Comments: 31
Kudos: 63





	1. CHAPTER 1: THE CRONE

The woman who threw things at him, causing him to scamper out of the room, was not his mother. She was old and gray, and stood with a terrible hunch. But for all her apparent frailty, she had a good arm. The boots under her musty skirt could leave deep bruises, and the cane accompanying her hunch could leave biting contusions. Her name was Galina.

She beat him less lately, because he’d learned to keep out of her way—hiding in the attic with his bug collection and his books. He loved reading, although books were rare and he was still learning the hard words. He’d begun teaching himself to read almost a year ago from whatever pages and scraps of paper he could find.

Now he could read the common tongue well enough, but he even owned a tome written in the ancient language (which he could not read but longed to understand). He’d discovered the old wind tome in Galina’s attic, and now it was his prized possession. The graceful, curving letters spelled the incantations for elemental magic. A mage could unlock this power, combine it with his own, and unleash a terrible assault on his enemies. The boy dreamed of this strength.

“Soren!” came Galina’s hoarse call. Her voice easily penetrated the boards beneath his feet, reverberating into the tiny attic. Soren scurried to the east corner and lowered his eye to a crack in the boards. He saw Galina in her room, swaddled in her coverlet despite the warm day. Smoke from the lantern on her bedside table stung his eyes. 

Soren stood as far as the slanted roof would let him, wiped his eyes, and dusted his ragged knees. He gingerly returned the grasshopper he’d been examining to the tin that had become its home and flipped closed a book of insect anatomy, leaving a recently amputated grasshopper leg between the pages. Finally, he scurried down the rope ladder that led to the kitchen. 

He followed the sounds of Galina’s bitter grumbling to her room. As he’d seen from above, she was still sitting on her straw mattress, knitting with dull wool. Despite the sun shining outside, the shutters were drawn. The lantern beside her produced more darkness than light, burning cheap oil and filling the air with smoke. Soren waiting at the door.

“There you are, filthy cur,” Galina growled when she finally noticed him. She spat over the side of the bed. “You know I hate when you sneak up on my like that. You think you can crawl around my house like you own the place?”

Soren watched her carefully.

“Well don’t just stand there, ungrateful brat!” Galina pointed an accusing finger first at him and then the lantern. “Put that out, and open the damned window.”

Both the lantern and window were easily within Galina’s reach if she were only to emerge from the cocoon of blankets around her legs. Soren approached slowly, wary of some trick. His bare feet padded across the floor, stepping over the splat of saliva she’d just expelled.

“Move, half-wit!”

Soren hurried his steps. He clamped the wick to extinguish it and then pushed the ragged curtain aside and forced out the stiff shutters. He did this quickly, eager to leave Galina’s presence.

But he wasn’t quick enough. The old woman’s cane had been hidden among the blankets on her bed. She swung it around and cracked it across his cheek, sending him to the floor. “Get out,” she snarled.

Soren scampered away as fast as his hands and feet would carry him. Rather than return to the attic where he would have no choice but to listen to Galina complain and say nasty things about him, Soren escaped to the alley behind the shack.

Rain water had collected on the rim of a barrel. He laid the side of his face on it for some relief, the area under his eye burned hot. A puffy mound swelled at the bottom of his left field of vision. He tried to take his mind off the pain.

It was a late summer day, one that held the refreshing taste of autumn on its breath. Boys and girls his own age laughed and played nearby. Soren watched them, slantways. Family kids pranced boldly in the road, only to return to their mothers’ skirts if they got too close to a stranger or large bug. Soren felt no connection to them; they led different lives. Gang kids lurked in the alleys, throwing rocks at cats or tormenting their younger members until they wet their pants. But he didn’t feel connected to these children either. For his own safety, he never strayed far from Galina’s shack. Despite her rough touch, she gave him food and a place to live.

When the sun had set, Soren crept back into the house and up the rope ladder. In the center of the attic was a nest of old clothes, torn canvas, and burlap bags. This was where he slept and luxuriated in his isolation. There was no Galina to abuse him or townspeople to glare at him. Here he could exist in peace.

Reaching under the mound of rags, he pulled out the triangular shard of a glass mirror. It was only the size of his hand, and it was old—frosted with scratches and fogged with age. But it still reflected Soren’s face, so he took great care with it.

When he shimmied over to a spear of moonlight cast through a hole in the roof, a young boy's face appeared on the surface of the glass. The boy was scrawny, with none of the baby fat a four-year-old should still have. He was as pale as the moon whose light illuminated him, and his hair as dark as the night surrounding him. He could pass as an orphan in one of the neighborhood gangs—long, raggedly cut hair and now a good-sized welt under his eye to complete the look. Staring at his reflection, he gently prodded the wound. Then his gaze moved upward. His eyes were the earthy red of clay brick, but people rarely looked him in the eye. Instead they stared at the strange birthmark in the center of his forehead.

Soren had seen tattoos on the bodies of foreign men who passed through Nevassa, and he once thought the red mark might be one of those. But a townsperson had once asked Galina this, and she’d vehemently rejected the idea. She’d claimed it was a birthmark and whisked Soren away. Her gait had been quick and his legs so small, he’d tripped and fallen in the dirt (where she’d then kicked him to get up).

The birthmark looked like an odd, cursive _x_ , or perhaps an incomplete figure-eight. The red lines were crisp, as if drawn in ink by a practiced hand, and therefore didn’t really look like a birthmark at all. At the moment, it was half covered by his bangs (which Galina always carefully cut to the correct length), and he patted them to conceal it fully. Then, with one last poke at the contusion below his eye, Soren tucked the glass safely away.

The next day was a return to the miserably hot months of high summer. Soren would have been content to stay in the shadowy hovel (even if the attic became an oven on days like this), but Galina had other ideas.

She ordered him to join her in the day's shopping, and refusing wasn’t an option. By her awkward posture and the arm pressed tightly to her side, Soren could tell her back was hurting even worse than usual. That was probably the only reason she would tolerate his presence in public today.

They set out on the sunny streets of Nevassa, above which towered King Ashnard's castle. As usual Soren stared at it with wide eyes, but Galina didn't spare a passing glance. She walked at a brisk limp, her cane thumping the dusty street in tune with her steps. "Keep up, you wretch!" she called

Soren quickened his pace to match her long, stiff stride, the empty wagon trundling behind him already feeling heavy. Looking around, he saw townsfolk turned up their noses, avert their eyes, or offer Galina pitying glances.

The first stop was the vegetable stall of a woman Galina knew well. The shelves were laden with plump eggplants and squashes, the table set with leafy greens still wet with dew, and in the back were baskets spilling over with rock-like potatoes. Dried herbs were dangling above her head, and there was even a display of edible seeds and nuts in a variety of glass jars. Soren ran his hungry eyes over every pitted rind and crimped leaf. He breathed in the scents of rich dirt, old herbs, and the subtle earthiness of squashes.

“Morning, Ester,” Galina sighed.

"G’day, Galina,” the shopkeeper replied with a half-smile. “It’s nice ta see you out and about." Only then did she catch sight of Soren behind her wide skirt. “Oh…you brough’ the boy with you t’day.” She did not seem pleased by this fact (perhaps because other potential patrons were avoiding her shop now that Galina and Soren stood in front of it).

“He won’t touch anything,” Galina ensured, and Soren kept his arms at his sides. She began pointing to the specimens she wanted, and the shopkeeper filed them away in a chipped, clapboard box. Meanwhile, Soren stared at the mouthwatering food. He knew he would only be given the scraps and rinds to fill his stomach, or else he would have to wait until the fruits and vegetables Galina didn’t eat began to mold.

"What's this going to cost me?" Galina groaned.

"Twenty copper pieces," Ester answered primly.

“You’re scalping me!”

“Of course not, dear.” Her mouth was open as if aghast, but Soren detected exaggeration in her voice and face. She was overcharging them, and he had a feeling it was his fault. 

“I delivered four of your five whelps, or don’t you remember?”

“Bus’ness is bus’ness, Galina. I have grandchildren ta feed.”

“Why’s it always the farm families who never stop complaining about mouths to feed?” Galina replied bitterly.

“Now, now.” Ester never lost her pleasant shopkeeper’s voice. “That’s uncalled for.”

Giving in, Galina started counting out the little coins. The corners of Ester’s mouth twisted with satisfaction, but when her eyes accidentally slid to Soren’s, the expression died. She shuddered and looked away. When she accepted the coins from Galina, the sympathy in her voice sounded genuine: “May the Goddess Ashera bless you, dear.”

Galina just grunted and walked away. Soren knew it was his job to take the crate from the counter. He reached up, and Ester stepped back as if he might somehow hurt her. He tried to keep an impassive face, knowing from experience that Galina tended to hit him harder if he dared pout. But the shopkeeper’s disgust was nearly as painful as a beating.

A half hour later, they were finally on their way home. The summer heat was searing, and this made Galina even more irritable. Soren wasn’t happy either, but as always, he hid this from her. He concentrated on the simple labor of pulling the wagon (which seemed impossibly heavy now) and avoiding piles of horse dung (the number of which indicated a platoon of cavalry soldiers must have left the castle by this road not long ago). 

His lips were cracking, but he knew better than to ask Galina for water, especially in the mood she was in. They had been overcharged or turned away almost everywhere, and she maintained an impressively endless string of complaints under her breath. Most were about the hot weather, and the aggression Soren felt radiating off her made him wonder if she blamed him for that too.

Since it was the hottest part of the day, many townsfolk were dozing under awnings or drinking cool tea behind the closed doors of their shops. Everyone else was packed into bars, drinking mead and spirits. If they had the coin, they paid extra for ice from the mountains or lemons imported from Begnion. Soren had once sucked on a lemon rind he’d found in a trash heap, and he did not understand the appeal.

Neither did he understand the allure of the alcohol he saw passed back and forth behind tavern windows. Soren had once sniffed the harsh potato liquor Galina drank when her back hurt so much she couldn’t get out of bed, but he hadn’t dared steal a drop. Frankly, it smelled more like paint than anything that should be ingested.

However, Galina clearly had a taste for it, and she now gazed longingly through the open doors of every bar they passed. Soren knew the only reason she didn’t push her way into one was because he was with her.

They had just passed one such tavern when a sudden commotion broke out behind them. Galina twisted around eagerly, as if the sound of angry voices was a familiar tune. A man was shoved out of the tavern entrance, backpedaling to keep his footing.

“We don’t serve your kind here!” the barkeep called. He and another burly man were the first to follow him out. Then what seemed like every other man, woman, and child inside the tavern spilled into the street. They quickly surrounded the man, and Galina joined them.

They were all hurling insults, but Soren heard Galina’s coarse shriek above all the rest. Some of her insults were familiar: “cur,” “wretch,” “vermin,” and so on. But others were new and creative (perhaps inspired by the vile things others were saying): “whoreson,” “weevil-eater,” and “lecherous rat” were ones she annunciated with particular zeal.

His curiosity piqued, Soren squirmed through the crush of bodies. When he had a partial view of the man, the first thing he noticed was that his coat jutted behind him and he had his hand at his belt. It took Soren a moment to realize he was wearing a long sword, and another moment to realize that the sliver of steel glinting below the hilt was the only reason the crowd were not unleashing the violence contained in their taut shoulders and clenched fists. 

However, the man did not draw the sword more than a couple inches, and neither did he respond to the insults. His chin was tucked down as if he wanted to hide behind his high collar, but his eyes were feral with rage.

Soren wondered what he had done to be hated this way. “Stranger,” people said, “Foreigner.” The word “subhuman” was circulated like a question and a curse. Soren wondered if this could be true; he certainly looked like a human to him.

Finally, the man started to move. He took a few tentative, and the crowd bent to keep its distance. After a few more steps, a path opened for him. He was coming in Soren’s direction, who made way with the rest of the townsfolk.

From this angle, Soren could see his face better. The man had dark skin and a mane of pale orange hair, but most striking was the intricate tattoo spider-webbing up the left side of his neck and onto his face. It was this that he was attempting to hide behind his coat’s high collar.

Soren’s blood ran cold despite the hot day, and he suddenly felt lightheaded. He had seen tattoos before. Travelers would ink anything in their skin: depictions of mythical beasts, the names of loved ones, symbols of good fortune, clan marks, and talismans for strength. But this was some nonsensical design—perhaps not a tattoo at all.

He stood frozen in place, where he was jostled by people stomping and shaking their fists to punctuate their words:

"Get out, filth!" "

"Unclean blood!"

"Begone, freak!"

"Stay away from us!"

"Crime against Ashera!"

"Out!"

"Animal!"

"Filth!"

"Monster!"

" _Worse than a subhuman!_ "

Soren imagined he could see the loathing emanating from the crowd like waves of heat. He followed the sound of Galina’s voice and found her wrinkled face, her bright eyes, and the spittle flying from her mouth.

When the man was almost gone, people in the crowd began throwing fruit and vegetables from the stalls lining the street. Others flung handfuls of horse dung. The stranger was forced to duck and quicken his pace until he was running.

Soren pushed out of the crowd, returning to the wagon he had abandoned. Part of him feared the crowd would turn on him when the stranger was gone, and so he sat on the other side of the wagon, curled up his knees, and waited for the massacre of words to end.

Galina found him when the crowd dispersed. Some laughed, others grumbled, but most returned to their daily lives and habits as if nothing had happened. “Get up,” Galina barked, and Soren stood, peering up to see which category Galina fell under.

The revulsion on her face was the same she always wore when she looked at him, but there was something else too. Her eyebrow twitched, and her mouth was open so he could see the stubs of her bottom teeth. The hatred burning in her eyes crackled on new tinder.

Soren averted his gaze and stared at his fraying, mismatched shoes instead. His stomach became ice. His skin came over cold and clammy despite the hot, dry air, and he felt the overwhelming urge to pee. In this moment, Soren discovered he was afraid to die. And for the first time in his life, he thought Galina was not just capable of killing him, but more than willing.

He wanted to run, but he was rooted in place. Where would he go, even if he could move his scrawny legs? His mind raced, but he could not fathom why Galina continued to provide for him if she wanted him dead. She wasn't his mother, grandmother, or any relation he knew of. Soren had no idea how he’d come to be in her possession. (She’d never said, and he had never dared ask.)

Galina stepped closer, and Soren’s entire body flinched. But she did not strike him. “Home,” she grunted. He picked up the wagon’s handle and started walking in the direction she had pushed him. The rest of the walk passed in silence, and Soren almost missed her grumbling. At least then he knew what she was thinking.

Soren had spent countless hours watching people from the holes in the attic, a vantage point on the roof, or in any of the three alleys around Galina’s hovel. He was content with what he could experience from afar and never wandered more than a few blocks in any direction. After that day, however, Soren began straying farther from home.

He was still careful never to enter any shops and to stay away from adults. He tried to travel only through alleys unoccupied by gang kids, but he could not entirely avoid crossing their path. To get anywhere, he had to put himself at their mercy. He returned home with split lips, black eyes, and soiled clothes, but he was no real threat so they didn’t do him any serious harm. He was willing to take the risk.

The reason for his newfound courage was actually his fear. He was afraid of dying at Galina’s hand; he was afraid of his own powerlessness. He was searching for something to give him an edge.

There was an abandoned temple several streets away, and Soren knew the gang kids frequented it, fought over it, and used it as a meeting place for their games and their battles. By eavesdropping on their conversations, he’d learned that the temple’s old library was still relatively intact on the second floor. The kids used the books for kindling when they could find nothing else. The information within those texts were worthless to them, most of whom could not read. But it was not worthless to Soren, who felt a stirring of hope at the prospect of forgotten knowledge. If no one in this world would help him, then perhaps long dead authors would.

He decided to visit the temple one night when Galina was out gambling and wouldn’t notice his prolonged absence. Before leaving the attic, he retrieved his glass shard and fashioned a handle for it from a bit of cloth. It was a pathetic excuse for a knife, but Soren’s instincts told him to arm himself when wandering into gang territory.

The temple was empty when he reached it, but there was no guarantee it would stay that way. Soren crept inside and examined the structure in the moonlight. It was a ruin of charred wood and garbage swept in from the street. The steeple had fallen, and half of the roof was missing. The walls leaned precariously, and the central pillars had been gnawed thin by hungry termites.

The stairs leading to the second floor were completely gone, but the gang kids had piled boxes and barrels to make a staircase of their own. It did not look structurally sound, but the library was on the second floor so Soren had no choice but to climb. The stack wobbled under his weight, but if the older, heavier kids could do it, Soren reasoned he could do it too.

When he finally reached the top, he saw that more of the floor was missing than anticipated. But most of the beams were in place, so he walked on these, arms outstretched for balance, until he reached the part of the room that was intact.

Here were towering shelves filled with the remnants of rotten books. Some shelves leaned against each other like half-fallen dominos, while others had already fallen completely. Books spilled out of them—hardly more than a rat’s nest of lost covers and torn pages. Most of the writing was faded or illegible from years of rain and sunlight.

Soren walked only where he thought it was safest and searched through the shelves that were the most protected by the remaining roof. He hadn’t borrowed one of Galina’s lanterns for fear that she would notice the missing oil, so he read only by the light of the moon.

Hours passed, and Soren froze every time someone passed outside. At one point, a trio of young boys came into the temple to retrieve some stolen sweets they’d stored here, and Soren hardly breathed until they left again. It was getting late, and Soren was starting to give up when he finally found something promising.

It was a cluster of wrinkle pages, and according to the numbers in the margins, these were the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh pages in a set of sixteen. The pamphlet appeared to outline the pronunciation of the Ancient Language. The half-faded pages contained the common tongue as well as the ancient script, and between the blocks of text were numerous notes and diagrams.

Soren’s heart beat faster as he realized this could be the key to understanding the wind tome in Galina’s attic. He could unlock the meaning of those elegantly swirling words and maybe even the magical power they contained. If he could use wind magic, he would wield a weapon against anyone who dared hurt him again. If he was to die, he would die with words of power on his lips. He would die fighting, like a mage in the army.

Ignoring the late hour and his own safety, Soren searched desperately for the rest of the pamphlet. He wandered onto beams that moved under his weight, and he crawled under fallen shelves that could pin him with the slightest shift. He took foolish risks, but he was determined to examine every scrap of paper until he found all sixteen pages.

In the end, he grasped fourteen of them, and that would have to be enough because there was nowhere else to search. Folding them together, he slipped the pages into his pocket and descended the tower of crates that led to solid ground. Going down was more difficult, and he was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice the fact that he was no longer alone here.

When his feet finally met the cracked boards of the temple floor, he heard slow clapping and twisted around to see six kids in the gloom. Two were close to his age, but four were older—and much bigger.

“I told you I heared something up there!” said one of the younger kids proudly. “I knowed it was too big to be a rat.”

“Oh, it’s a rat alright,” sneered one of the older kids—the one who had been clapping.

Soren reached into his pocket and gripped the glass shard. He didn’t know whether to fight or run, so he waited. He was terrified of what these kids might do to him. Trespassing in one of their hideouts could cost him broken bones, lost teeth, or worse.

“Whatcha doing here, kid?” another of the older kids asked. He was flipping a knife in his hand, and it looked a lot more threatening than Soren’s mirror fragment.

Soren did not reply.

“You like old books, do ya?” another asked, glancing up at the second level. “Or were you just spyin’?” He stepped forward, and Soren took an equal step back. The boy glared.

“It could be he’s spyin’,” said the last older kid and only girl in the group. “I know that kid; he’s that freak—the one the scary old knitting lady looks after.”

Soren took another step back, but the one with the knife was coming after him now, grinning widely. “Hey I want to see it.” Stopping in front of Soren, he lifted the knife and used the tip to part his bangs. He made a low, appreciative whistle when the mark was revealed. “That sure is spooky, isn’t it?”

Soren didn’t dare move. He gripped the glass in his pocket even tighter, fighting the urge to plunge it into the kid’s neck. If he did that, he would not make it far before the others caught him.

“Careful, Rafe,” one of the other kids said. He didn’t sound nearly as interested in Soren’s birthmark. “You know what they say about him.”

“Ah, that’s all hooey,” returned another in the group.

“No, it’s not!” cried one of the younger kids self-importantly. “Ambrose and his guys beat on this kid last week, and ever since then, Ambrose’s been sick with the flu. His voice is all hoarse, and he keep coughing up this really gross stuff!”

“It’s true,” the girl’s voice backed up the young one’s. “He’s sick as a dog.”

“Well, Ambrose also eats bugs, so I’m not convinced,” someone shot back.

“Shut up, all of you,” the boy with the knife called back to them. He stared into Soren’s eyes, and appeared to be making up his mind. “Whatever this little freak is, we can’t let him go without teaching him a lesson. Otherwise everyone’ll be getting weird tattoos just to slip through our fingers.”

“But, Rafe, my gran says just touching him can give you a blood curse!”

“Your gran is nuts, Clive,” said one of the others.

“Yeah, she’s nuts!” parroted one of the little ones.

They were all silent for a moment, until the girl observed. “He don’t say much, do he?”

“Maybe he’s a mute?”

“Hey, Rafe, see if he’s got a tongue!”

“You can have a tongue and still be mute, dumbass.”

“Ooh, maybe it’s forked!”

The boy with the knife—Rafe—grinned at these suggestions, and before Soren knew it, he was forcing the blade between his lips. Soren opened his mouth immediately so he wouldn’t be cut. Rafe depressed his tongue with the cold, flat metal, and Soren tried not to gag. He was trembling with fear now, and he felt tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. “Not forked!” Rafe called back, and this was met with a few moans of disappointment. He pulled the knife out and laughed.

Soren hadn’t intended to run, but the instant the knife was clear of his mouth, something inside him had snapped. He hardly remembered turning away, but a moment later, he was running blindly. His fists were pumping, and he had taken his hand out of his pocket with the glass shard still firmly in his fist. He hadn’t used it; he’d just run.

He heard hooting and laughing behind him, and because the laughter continued after the temple was far behind him, he knew he was being pursued. And yet no one grabbed him or struck him, and eventually the laughter faded as the gang kids gave up.

“Go on home!” one of them called.

“We know where you live, kid!” said another.

But their voices were gleeful, not angry; they’d let him go on purpose. Even realizing this, Soren didn’t stop running until he arrived safely at the house. He could see the glow of firelight in the windows and knew Galina was already home. Chest heaving and blood pumping in his ears, he tried to compose himself before going inside.

But he didn’t have the chance. Galina must have heard him, because the door burst open. “You ungrateful brat,” she snarled, holding her cane in both hands and twisting it through her palms. “After all I do for you…”

Soren stepped toward her, and it was like walking up to a fire. She edged to the side to let him enter, and he did, knowing he was stepping toward certain punishment. The first blow him in the back, and he was sprawled on the floor before the door even closed behind them.

Soren did not leave the house for several days, which was just as well because the annual autumn rains and winds were taking their first pass at the city. While he recuperated from the bruises and stiff joints Galina had given him, he obeyed her orders and boarded up the leaks in the roof.

In his spare time, however, he pored over the pages he’d salvaged from the temple and compared them to the spells written in the old wind tome. As he learned how to read and pronounce the ancient script, he quickly discovered that several of the sounds were not made in the modern tongue. Fortunately, the pamphlet described how to approximate them, including diagrams depicting tongue and lip position.

He began whispering—and kept whispering for days. Coughing in the dust of the attic, he tasted the sounds, the syllables, the words, the rhythms. He was determined to master them, and soon he could read the ancient script as quickly as the modern tongue, even if he had no idea what most of the words meant. The pamphlet described the basic grammar and offered a few sample words, but Soren did not think knowing the ancient word for ‘fish’ (“*fish*”) was going to help him become a powerful mage. Soren just hoped he would not have to understand the words for them to work. After all, a soldier didn’t need to understand the structure and components of his blade; they needed only to know it was sharp and to have enough strength to plunge it into their enemy’s heart.

When he felt he’d practiced long enough and knew the words of the first incantation by heart, Soren took the spell book to the alley on the left side of the house (which was the widest). The corners were still soaked with puddles from yesterday’s storm, and the shadows were cool despite the warm, sunny day. Soren enjoyed the feeling of the air on his skin. Today was the perfect day to finally try magic.

The only drawback was the two dogs chained behind the neighbor’s house. As usual, they were barking incessantly and pulling against their tethers. Their jowls flapped at Soren, spattering froth into their own eyes. He did his best to ignore them.

Standing with the tome open in both hands, he widened his stance and squaring his shoulders. It was rare that he stood fully straight like this, but it seemed like the right position to be in if he was going actually going to command wind spirits.

The incantations for novices were written in the beginning of the book. They were short and supposedly easy, and it was these that Soren had memorized. According to the annotations written in the margins, the spell would create a small rotational current—if successful, that is.

Some of the spells were blurry and faded, as if rubbed out, so Soren directly his gaze to the first entry with legible script. Then he shuffled through the loose pages of his precious guide to be absolutely certain he knew the right sounds. Finally he opened his mouth, and in a voice louder than a whisper, he uttered the ancient words: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

Nothing happened, but Soren did not give up yet. If magic was conducted by communing with unseen elemental spirits, then he would plead with those spirits until they obeyed him willingly. _I need to become powerful,_ he thought, _So no one can hurt me again._ He incanted a second time: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

Still there was not even the slightest disturbance in the air. _I want to become something more,_ he thought, _I am nothing on my own._ Again he said the ancient words: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

But still nothing happened, and he was starting to despair. Perhaps he did not have talent for magic after all. Gritting his teeth, he rotated in place, looking not at the walls surrounding him but the air itself. _You cannot ignore me,_ he thought, _I exist, and I am as worthy to command you as anyone._ This time he tore the words from his own lips, and they dripped with spite: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

Three things happened in a single moment. First, the meaning of the words shot through his mind like the zap of static electricity. It really was a command: a simple one ordering wind spirits to ‘dance’ before him. Second, a breeze started to churn around him, gently tossing his hair and raising bumps on his forearms and the back of his neck. The breeze intensified, narrowed, and turned into a small, meandering twister. It was visible only by the dust and dirt it picked up, but that was enough to see that the spell had been a success.

The final thing that happened was that Soren laughed for the first time in his young life. As soon as he did, the winds dissipated and the dust settled. He leaned against the wall of Galina’s house. He could hardly believe it had worked. The neighbor’s hounds had also fallen silent, as if they were equally surprised by what they had just seen.

After a few moments, Soren’s pride had run its course and he discovered a new ambition. He wanted to try something more advanced; he wanted to use the winds as a real mage would use them.

Returning his attention to the spell book, he noticed the line he’d read was now blurred out like the ones before it and so realized each rendition of the spell could only be used once. Flipping through the frail pages, he saw many blurred spells and realized there was not much left in this tome at all. This could be a problem, but not one he had to solve now.

Finding the simplest attack spells, which were listed a little deeper in the book, Soren set about practicing the sounds for this new incantation. It was slightly longer but still easy enough to pronounce. Few of these spells remained, but he did find a legible line. Before reading it aloud, he realized he would need a target. He could not attack the walls of either Galina’s or her neighbor’s house, for fear of them hearing on the other side. There was a trash heap in one corner of the alley, and an old rotten box in another, but attacking either was likely to make a mess. That only left the dogs, and Soren approached them carefully.

The spell was designed to injure or kill one’s opponent. In order to truly test it, he would need a living subject. He selected one of the dogs at random and remained just beyond the reach of its chain. At his approach, both had started baying again, and now they snapped at the air.

Soren stood firmly, raising the tome in both hands again. "*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me*."

Once again, the meaning of the words was unlocked for him as soon as the last syllable fell from his lips. His hair and clothes waved in the tiny breezes branching off of the main spell. But instead of a simple twister, the winds created a gale in a single direction.

It blew into the dog’s face, causing it to narrow its eyes and pull back its ears. The creature whined and curved its body, half-exposing its belly in submission, but Soren did not accept this surrender. He concentrated on what he wanted the spell to do. The winds strengthened and grew sharp.

The creature’s flank became raw, the skin and fur ripped away as if the wind were scrambling against it with hundreds of tiny claws. With a yelp, the dog turned and ran as far as in the other direction as the chain would allow.

Soren let the spell fade, and the other dog sniffed the ground where the flakes of skin, fur, and drops of blood had settled. It was over; he had drawn his first blood as a wind mage. It wasn’t a kill, or even a mortal injury. Bar any serious infection, the hound would live to bark and slobber for years to come.

Soren suddenly wondered if the flank would scar; he wondered what its owners would think. Would they blame the strange raw patch on a rash or rough play with the other dog? Soren told himself it was impossible they’d guess wind magic, let alone suspect him of conjuring it. And yet fear coursed into his brain like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.

He could get into trouble; Galina could take his tome away and burn it. He would not be able to defend himself without the spell book, and yet to carry it around with him was impossible. Galina would never allow him to keep it if she realized the truth. Soren suddenly felt exposed in the alley. Had anyone been looking out their windows? Had anyone been looking in from the street?

At first, he saw no one and began to calm down. But then he realized there was an old man in a green cloak standing on the opposite side of the street. He remained motionless as the rest of the townsfolk moved around him, and it was very possible he was staring in Soren’s direction. He looked affluent and out of place on the dusty street, but Nevassa was the capital of Daein and had many visitors, even to the poor districts like this one.

Soren did not want to linger here and see if the man really was staring at him. Tucking the tome under his arm, he walked backward until he rounded the corner of Galina’s house. Then he twisted on the spot, dashed through the back door, and scurried up the rope ladder into the attic. He collapsed onto the rag nest with the heavy tome on his chest, breathing hard in both fear and exhilaration.

Soren did not leave the house the next day, for fear of angering Galina, running into the gang kids, or, he would admit, seeing that strange man in the green cloak. He wanted to try wind magic again, but he didn’t dare do it inside the house where Galina could hear him. He ripped out a half-empty page of attack spells to keep in his pocket, and that made him feel safer. The neighbors never came to the door accusing Soren of injuring their dog, and that also helped to settle his nerves.

However, that evening there was a knock on the door, and Soren dropped the ladle he was cleaning in surprise. It fell into the basin with a plop and a dull thump. Galina narrowed her eyes at him. Although she was generally well-known, Galina didn't have many friends. She rarely had visitors, but when she did, Soren knew to make himself scarce. She jerked her thumb, and he climbed the rope ladder with soap still on his hands.

In the attic, he was hidden but still able to see and hear everything. He heard Galina hobble to the door, unlatching all four locks. "What do you want?" she demanded. 

"Good evening. Are you the woman called Galina?" came a man’s voice in an unfamiliar accent.

"Who wants to know?" Galina growled.

"My name is Guthrie Sileas, and I have a proposition for you. May I come in?"

Soren did not recognize the man's name or voice, but only rich people had two names. Soren did not know why a nobleman would visit someone as poor and unpleasant as Galina, but he had a bad feeling about it. As silently as he could, Soren crawled over to a crack through which he could see the door and the visitor. His worst fears were confirmed when he recognized the green cloak. 

“Not interested in buying anything. Get out.” She made to close the door, but the man stopped it with his arm. They struggled over the old wooden slab for a few awkward moments, until Galina gave up. “What kind of proposition?” She didn’t move out of the doorframe.

The man smiled like a cat. "A transaction of sorts. Won’t you allow me inside so we may discuss it?”

“I said I’m not interested in buying anything,” she repeated. “And there’s nothing I’m willing to sell.”

Irritation flashed across his face, but then Sileas changed the topic. “I hear you care for a young boy on the premises. Is that correct?” He peered beyond Galina’s shoulder and surveyed the shack. Soren was glad he was hidden.

“There’re no kids here. Now leave,” Galina insisted. Soren was surprised she would lie. Then again, he didn’t really understand why she did anything. 

Sileas frowned. “I’ve asked around. He is no child of yours, so why do you protect him?”

Galina just crossed her arms.

“Hmmm,” Sileas hummed under his breath. “I see.” He smiled kindly. “I think we got off the wrong foot, ma’am.”

“Don’t ma’am me,” she grumbled. 

Undeterred, the man swept his cloak aside and untied a large purse from his belt. “In speaking with your neighbors, I discovered they resent you for your money. Gold is your motivation, isn’t it?” He massaged the sack of coins with his fingers. “Perhaps this would persuade you to speak with me?”

Galina finally stepped aside and waved him in. She glanced both ways in the street before closing the door. Sileas, meanwhile, was glancing around the house as if looking for something. _Looking for me,_ Soren realized.

“What do you want with the brat?” Galina growled, gesturing that the man should sit in the chair opposite her at the little table.

The man sat daintily. “I should like to see him, if that would be possible.”

Galina narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“You guard him well.” He disguised his irritation with praise. “It is because he is under the Spirit’s Protection?”

Galina’s body, wary and guarded a moment ago, suddenly relaxed, bending under the force of her sudden laughter. It took a few moments to quiet her guffaws and a few coughs to clear her throat. “ _Idiot_ ,” she finally spat, even though she was smiling. “You actually think he is a Spirit Charmer.”

Sileas pressed his back against the chair and raised his chin, clearly offended. “Your ward possesses rare magical skill. I saw him conducting a wind spell with ease. How old is he? Five? Six?"

"Impossible," Galina snorted, but she didn’t sound quite as certain as before. She paused a moment, realizing Sileas was waiting for an answer. "Uh, four, I think."

“Only four!” the man exclaimed excitedly. “He _must_ be a Spirit Charmer, then. How can you deny it? Did his parents enter him into the pact? I am assuming you did not.”

Galina shook her head. “His parents never knew him long enough for that.”

“Then the spirit chose to make the pack with him! Truly remarkable,” the man insisted.

Even from above, Soren could tell Galina’s face was skeptical. “How can you be so sure he is a Spirit Charmer at all?”

“Well I would have to inspect him up close to be sure. But I am a wind sage—” he tapped the shoulder of his velvet cloak “—and I do know about these things.”

“Soren!” Galina shrilled, suddenly turning her face to the ceiling. Soren jumped involuntarily and sent a cloud of dust raining on them. “Get down here.”

“The boy is in the ceiling?”

“He hides up there like vermin,” Galina replied.

Soren slid down the rope ladder. He was nervous and confused, but he was also irresistibly curious.

"There he is," the man murmured, when Soren’s feet hit the floor. His eyes looked hungry, and Soren almost considered climbing back up the ladder.

But Galina stopped him. “Come over here,” she ordered, pointing to the floor beside Sileas. Soren obeyed, but Sileas leapt from his seat in an instant and met Soren before he could take another step. The man’s left hand encircled Soren’s upper arm in a vice-like grip. The right swept away his bangs to reveal the mark.

“I knew I saw it,” Sileas murmured under his breath, right into Soren’s face. “I knew I had seen the Spirit’s Protection.”

Galina groaned and extracted herself from her chair. She hobbled over and looked at Soren with reluctance. “He's had the mark since he was days old, if that's what you mean.”

Sileas smiled, nodding. "The spirit really _did_ initiate the pack. Spectacular indeed."

Galina shook her head. “I can think of a more likely explanation.”

Sileas turned his eyes to Galina, but his hand still gripped Soren tightly. “I asked many people about you, Galina—you and this boy. I know what they say about him. You believe it too?”

Galina shrugged. “There’s something not right about him. He’s cursed.” Her eyes were filled with disgust.

The man shook his head in disappointment. “It is a mistake many would make. If I had not found him, perhaps his talent would never have been discovered.” He sighed. “But I am here now. Please, allow me to take the boy as my apprentice.”

“You’re not from around here…” Galina trailed off. It was not a question. She seemed to be wrestling with some mental dilemma.

“True,” Sileas admitted. “I live far from here. I would take the boy with me and train him there.” Galina didn’t seem convinced. “The stigma of living with him would be lifted from you. Your neighbors’ misconceptions will matter no more. Perhaps then, you will see that you have never been cursed.”

She snorted. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what my neighbors think.” She paused a moment as if choosing her next words carefully. “It is my job to care for the boy.”

Sileas seemed to understand. He offered three sincere nods. “Of course. If it is a matter of gold, I would pay you for your trouble.” With his free hand, he dropped the coin purse on the table.

Galina’s eyes lit up. “You really want him?” she said, as if finally believing it. “You’d really take him away?”

"Yes indeed.” 

Galina blinked. A tear sprang to her eye. She let out a wild peal of laughter. She stuffed the money purse into her skirt pocket, where Soren heard it thump against her leg. “One thing first,” she laughed, “I need his hair.” She hobbled to the counter and seized a pair of sheers.

“Very well,” Sileas agreed, gripping Soren’s shoulders as if to stop him from moving. “I will not ask about your arrangement.”

To Soren’s bewilderment, Galina sheered him nearly bald, carefully collecting the strands and folding them into a towel. She put this next to the gold in her skirt pocket while Soren patted the tufts of hair sticking out of his suddenly lighter head. Sileas was still holding him, so he couldn’t feel much. Then, suddenly, Galina was steering both Sileas and Soren out of the house. “Free at last…” she breathed, “Thank you, Ashera!” When they reached the door, Galina pushed it open with gusto. “Goodbye, you rotten cur!” she growled, almost affectionately. “You're someone else's problem now!"

Soren knew he should feel saddened by her behavior (and he did), but this feeling was overwhelmed by stronger sensations of fear and excitement. He was finally free of Galina. He was leaving Nevassa. He was going to live with this old sage. He was going to learn wind magic.

Sileas moved his grip to the back of Soren’s neck, steering him toward a large horse tethered by the road. With the other hand, he was waving farewell to Galina. Soren tried to look behind him, but Sileas’s hand forced his head forward. Soren heard the door close, and Galina’s gleeful laughter became muffled.

"Let's get going, kid." Sileas picked Soren up (which Soren was certainly not prepared for) and threw him onto the saddle. The horse was a tall, sturdy mare with a wide back and long legs. Soren clung to the saddle as tightly as possible. "Now none of that, child,” Sileas scolded as he untied the horse. “Scoot back. Sit up. That's right. You won't be allowed such luxuries as fear from now on.” He mounted in front of Soren. “You will embark on a course of backbreaking and rigorous training."

Soren gripped the man’s cloak in his fists and plunged his bare feet between the saddlebags and the horse’s flank on either side. This gave him some feeling of security, but it was small.

" _Hyup_ ," Sileas barked with a flick of the reins. The horse started plodding forward, and Soren thought he was about to faint.


	2. CHAPTER 2: THE SAGE

They plodded through the night, and Soren struggled to stay awake on the saddle. Sileas never said a word. He didn’t tell him where they were headed or how long it would take, but Soren hoped it wasn’t much farther. He was tired and reeked of horse. The excitement he’d felt upon leaving Nevassa was rapidly fading—especially since realizing there was something wrong with his new master. Sileas’s breathing had become ragged, and he’d begun to cough and shudder.

When they finally stopped, Sileas dismounted to rummage in the saddlebags. Soren slid down the horse’s flank and watched. The wind sage seemed to find what he was looking for and withdrew an opaque vial about the size of his hand. After taking a long draught, he sighed, replaced the cap, and pushed a hand through his stark white hair.

Noticing Soren’s interest, Sileas raised an eyebrow. “It’s medicine, boy. A vulnerary: v _ul-ner-ar-y._ Ever heard of it? You've probably never seen one before, growing up in that fat old crone's hovel.” He waved the bottle in front of Soren’s face. “Where you come from, I wager people die left and right.”

Soren was annoying by the man’s patronizing. Of course Soren knew what a vulnerary was. The heal-all was a staple of survival in the slums. Although it couldn’t actually heal everything, it could fight off a bad infection, knit a serious cut, or even remold a broken bone if the tincture was pure enough. Vulneraries meant life or death for laborers doing risky work.

“I'm sick you see,” Sileas was saying. After stowing the bottle, he squatted in the dirt to relieve his bowels. Soren looked away, but Sileas kept talking, his voice slightly strained. “I came to Nevassa to see a specialist…. All the way to bleeding Nevassa. Heh,” he grunted, “Just to be told there’s nothing can be done.” He finished, stood, and latched his belt. Soren turned back to him.

“The vulneraries will give me a few years. And you, my odd little apprentice, are going to be the way I spend those years. I’ll teach you everything I know before I die. And you’re going to learn it all, no complaining, got that?”

Soren nodded.

Sileas laughed. “We will see if this trip to Nevassa was a waste after all.” He remounted the horse. “Do your business, boy. We don’t stop again for five hours.”

Soren rushed to do as he was told, embarrassed under the old man’s gaze.

They rode for two days before making a real stop at an inn. Here Sileas recuperated before moving on. This meant buying a gallon of moonshine, paying a woman to join him in his room, and then sleeping for the rest of the day. Sileas called this ‘sampling the local delicacies.’ As their journey continued, this pattern of recuperation repeated every three or so days.

Each time, however, Soren was ordered to stay with the horse (which Sileas claimed was a retired warhorse more valuable than him) and told not to wander. His thighs and back hurt from riding, so he enjoyed these days of rest even if he had to spend them in a stable.

As the weeks stacked end-on-end, Soren realized Sileas’s home was far indeed. With nothing else to do, Soren watched the land slowly change. Everything was new to him. Daein was an arid land, with many wide plains but few forests. Rocky valleys preceded sheer cliffs that rose straight out of the plains and reached heights that put King Ashnard’s castle to shame. Where rivers ran between them, putrid swamps and wetlands sunk into the earth like rot.

Remembering what he’d learned about the movement of the sun, Soren knew they were heading west. Eventually a range of what seemed like impossibly tall mountains appeared. Sileas drove the old charger toward these peaks, and the terrain started to rise. Soren had seen maps of Tellius before, and wondered if this was the barrier range between Daein and Crimea.

They took a pass through the mountains where the days were cold and the nights were frigid. The pass led to a stone bridge stretching across a chasm so deep it was dizzying to look down. Far below them ran white water, which was probably frothing wildly but was silent at this distance.

The crumbling bridge didn't look at all safe in Soren’s unspoken opinion. The horse stopped, prancing nervously. Soren stared intently at Sileas’s back, clutched his cloak, and hoped the old sage would declare it too dangerous to cross.

To Soren's disappointment, Sileas said no such thing. "This is it: Riven Bridge! It might not look like much now, but it was amazing once! It’s stood for centuries, and dozens of pivotal battles have been fought here.” Sileas seemed to be talking to himself, so Soren stopped listening. He'd gotten one thing out of the monologue: they were going to cross.

With some prodding from Sileas, the horse strode onto the bridge. When they had traveled half the distance, their progress caused a small avalanche of stones to collapse along the edge. The horse startled, reared, and galloped blindly for the other side.

Soren held on for his life, but Sileas laughed like a madman. When they finally reached solid ground again, Soren wondered if the man had abandoned all fear of death in the face of his disease.

A well-trod path led from the bridge to a slightly leaning tower at the forest’s edge. “Doubt we can sneak on by, huh?” Sileas grumbled. He tapped the horse’s flank. The flag of Crimea flapped from the battlements, and two armored men were brushing their horses in a rough-looking stable at the base of the tower.

One was armed with a bow on his back and the other a sword on his belt. Although their armor was molded in the same style, the colors were completely different. The bowman wore bright teal, and the swordsman a rich purple.

“Behold the Royal Knights of Crimea,” Sileas sneered under his breath, “What a bunch of clowns.”

The purple knight raised his hand. “Greetings, traveler!”

Sileas did not respond, but he stopped his horse, dismounted, and handed the reins to the teal knight. Soren jumped to the ground (managing not to skin his knees this time). He followed Sileas closely, suddenly warry of the tall, burly soldiers.

Inside the tower, a man in cream-white armor swept the floor while another man in the same armor practicing striking a makeshift dummy with a broom for a head. Soren had seen illustrations of battles, and he so he knew Crimean soldiers throughout history had worn white armor like this, while Daein wore black and Begnion (Daein’s neighbor to the south) red. But he had not known Crimea’s Royal Knights wore such colorful uniforms. Another was stationed in here. His armor was pastel pink, and his lance leaned against the wall while he read a book with his feet kicked up on a table.

There was a counter on the opposite wall, behind which stood a grumpy looking woman with flawless skin and thick, red hair as brilliant as blood. Her armor matched her hair, and she had an impressive-looking poleaxe slung across her back.

It was then he noticed the young girl sorting papers beside the red knight. She couldn’t have been much older than Soren, and she kept stole furtive glances at him and Sileas. Soren was interested in her, because she looked as out of place as he felt. The girl had freckles and curly, pale-gold hair, and although she couldn’t possibly be a knight or soldier like the others, she wore what appeared to be light chain mail under her navy tunic. On her wrists she wore leather greaves, and on her belt was a tiny knife. She looked like a doll made up in toy armor, and she must have been kneeling on a high stool.

Sileas walked up to the counter and frowned at the red-haired knight. “I suppose I have to check in to the country?” They were so close now—and Soren so short—he could only see the top of the knight’s plume of red hair.

“Name?” the woman asked, and by her voice Soren could tell she did not appreciate his attitude.

“Guthrie Sileas.”

The girl stretched across the counter to peek over the edge. She examined Soren with wide, curious eyes. Soren glared back.

“Number in your party?”

“Two.”

The girl grinned widely.

“Plants or animals?” the knight asked.

The girl closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

“One horse.” Sileas answered, and it appeared both adults were going to ignore her. Soren continued to glare while she snickered quietly to herself.

“Any weapons?” the knight continued. “You are a wind mage, correct?”

“A sage actually,” Sileas replied indignantly. “A former colonel in the Crimean Army, thank you very much!”

“My apologies, sir. I hope you are enjoying your retirement. Any tomes to declare?”

“I’d be enjoying it a lot more if I didn’t have to waste my time answering stupid questions.”

At these words, the girl gave up her game of making faces at Soren to glare at Sileas instead. Her cheeks rounded in a pout. 

“Any tomes to declare?” the knight prompted again.

“Three,” he finally answered.

“And where are you travelling from today, sir?”

“Nevassa.” Sileas crossed his arms.

“Destination?”

“Gallia,” Sileas answered, and the little girl’s jaw dropped in awe. Soren was equally surprised. After all, Sileas had never actually told them where they were going. Upon reaching the barrier mountains, he’d assumed the destination was somewhere in Crimea, but it appeared their journey was longer still.

“You’re going to see the beast-men!” the girl suddenly asked, her voice high with excitement. “He’s just like you, Captain Titania!”

“Hush, Koure,” the knight scolded. “You are not to interrupt our work, remember? Now go back to your coloring.”

“I’m not coloring,” the young girl mumbled, but her head disappeared from view. Soren heard the rustle of papers as she returned to whatever she was doing.

“You live in one of the border towns?” the knight asked Sileas even though it didn’t sound like a question.

“Unfortunately, the border moved,” Sileas growled.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you are choosing to remain and make it work,” the knight said brightly. “The Gallians are truly not so bad once you get to know them.”

Sileas made a guttural sound in his throat that sounded half like a laugh and half like a choke. “So you’re one of King Ramon’s faithful, are you?”

“I am a Royal Knight,” she returned icily.

“And what are the Royal Knights but a bunch of fools and children.” He looked pointedly at the girl sharing the desk with her. Soren suddenly realized the other knights and soldiers in the room were staring. He glanced around and saw their angry eyes. Sileas either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You’re a meanie!” the young girl spoke up again. “The Royal Knights are the best, strongest people in the world!” (The knight did not tell her to hush this time.)

Sileas scoffed. “You have a lot to learn, kid. These buffoons won’t protect anyone when the war comes.”

“War?” the girl repeated, suddenly scared.

“My question exactly, Koure,” the knight said, sounding annoyed. “What are you going on about, Mr. Sileas?”

“Villages like mine will be the first to go,” he said, although it wasn’t much of an answer. “When the day comes, we’ll be wiped off the face of Tellius! When the subhumans attack, your king will have no warni-”

“I’ve heard enough,” the knight cut him off. “The end of this foolish conversation is overdue. Follow the southern road, and see yourself to Gallia.”

Sileas was obviously insulted and frustrated. “You’ll see!” He twisted around so quickly that cloak billowed. Soren followed closely behind him. “You’ll see,” Sileas muttered again when they reached the door.

Soren glanced back to see the knights’ reaction. The red knight at the counter was holding a hand to her head as if exhausted by the encounter, and the others were still staring angrily. As for the little girl, she was leaning across the desk again, clamping her eyes shut, and sticking out her tongue at Soren.

Soren ignored her and followed Sileas back to the horse and teal knight. Once Sileas slung him back on the saddle, Soren tried to turn his mind to their destination instead of the odd knights. Gallia, the land of beasts—it was a place of fairy stories told to keep children in line. It was the home of monsters.

They traveled through Crimea for months, and their routine remained unchanged. As before, Soren took stock of the changing landscape. Crimea’s climate seemed gentler than Daein, even in the winter months. The southern road took them through rolling hills of dormant farmland, quiet naked forests, lush evergreen ones, and smoky towns.

The mountainous border with Begnion often rose on their left, and eventually new mountains rose before them. In the Marhaut Range, Sileas drank his spirits mulled with warm spices. Behind the inns were hot springs where the women Sileas paid pretended to squeal in pleasure.

When they left the mountains, the snow drifted in big flakes and formed soft white hills wherever the wind blew. In the woods, it clung to the trees like a heavy coat, weighing down the branches until a bird or other critter knocked it to the forest floor with a muted _whump_. 

On the road they passed Royal Knights on errands, soldiers on patrol, and militiamen running messages. Woodcutters drove mules carrying sledges piled high with logs. Farmers waved from their pastures, and ox drivers plowed the snow after a storm. Soren even saw a troupe of traveling entertainers, a refugee family fleeing a fire, and a company of mercenaries on their way to a bloody job. Sometimes Soren saw pegasus knights and postage officers flying far above the road (although he might have mistaken them for birds if Sileas didn’t point them out).

Other than arbitrarily drawing his attention to things like this, the old sage had yet to teach him anything—including wind magic. Soren did not know when his supposed training would begin, so he kept his eyes and ears open. He was determined to learn what he could about the world, regardless of his master’s willingness to teach. 

Spring eventually came, which meant a slight warming of the air, more frequent birdsongs, louder rivers, and the smell of mud. Soren noticed a change in his master too. Sileas seemed to have more energy, and even his coughing seemed to bother him less. Soren wondered if they were finally nearing their destination.

“This road will take us to Gallia,” Sileas muttered one day, tapping the horse into a left turn. “Best keep a wary eye out.” The path they followed was narrower than the road they’d been traveling, and it led into a shadowy forest that seemed older and more ominous than any they had traversed so far.

On one hand, Soren was glad they were finally reaching a place they’d be staying permanently. If he never rode a horse again, it would be too soon. On the other hand, he could not ignore the fear that bunched Sileas’s shoulders. The old sage had laughed when cantering across a crumbling bridge over a bottomless chasm, and yet entering the lands of Gallia was making sweat bead on his neck. Soren did not think he wanted to live in Gallia, and he could not fathom why Sileas chose to.

After about an hour of travel, they entered a clearing with a couple of huts and a stone guard tower. Soren could recognize an outpost of the Crimean army by now, and this one appeared abandoned. There were no horses in the stable, and there were no soldiers or Royal Knights to be seen.

“Hmph,” Sileas grunted and dismounted. “Stay,” he ordered when the boy made to follow him. Soren froze, and Sileas led the horse by the reins. When they neared the tower, Soren noticed a paper nailed to the center of the locked door. Soren squinted and read the words ‘Out to lunch.’

“The nerve of these fools!” Sileas spat. “They dare leave the border unguarded?” Soren waited to see what Sileas would do. “We march on,” he declared, as if answering his unspoken question. He mounted the horse so forcefully he nearly kicked Soren off. “ _Hyup!_ ” he barked.

However, they had not made it far down the road before the stomp of hoofbeats became audible. Sileas pulled the old charger to a halt, and four armored horsemen tore past them into the clearing.

Three were wearing the white armor of Crimea, and two were wearing the eccentric colors of the Royal Knights: one in cardinal red and one in pine green. The red and whites were laughing, but the green had pulled his steed to a halt. “Woah!” he calmed his rearing mare, staring Sileas and Soren in shock.

“I win again!” cried the red knight, who had surged to the front after his companion had peeled off.

“We have travelers,” the green knight replied in a soft voice. He walked his horse over to Sileas. “I apologize. We should not have left our post.” He offered an embarrassed smile, and Soren was struck by how young he looked.

The red knight plodded up to them and seemed to notice Sileas and Soren for the first time. “Hey—travelers!” he exclaimed. Like his companion, he was only a teenager.

Sileas rubbed the horn of the saddle as if frustrated. “Ashera, what has become of the Royal Knights of Crimea? They look hardly more than children to me!”

“Allow me to apologize for our rather un-knightly behavior,” offered the green knight.

The red knight grumbled under his breath: “Better children than a grumpy old fart.”

“The Knights have inducted many new members this season,” the green knight hurried to say, before his companion could say something more audibly. “Dozens passed the spring exams.”

Sileas snorted. “They lowered the bar, it sounds like. I suppose they let just anyone join the Royal Knight these days?”

“Well, yes,” the green knight answered with an appeasing smile, “King Ramon removed the restriction against commoners.”

“A lot of good it will do you, when the war comes,” Sileas snarled.

“War?” the red knight repeated eagerly, apparently ready for a fight. He drew his axe, and his nostrils flared.

Sileas groaned. “You’ll see. You’ll all see. War is inevitable.”

“War with whom?” the green knight asked curiously.

“Anyone!” Sileas replied angrily. “Everyone! Subhumans most likely.” Soren knew Sileas was paranoid. This was far from the first time he’d heard him try to convince someone they were doomed.

“We have peace with Gallia,” assured the green knight.

“As boring as that is,” mumbled the red knight. “We’ve been posted here a month and haven’t seen any action.”

Sileas shook his head. “ _Children_.”

“What business do you have in Gallia, sir?” the green knight asked, “If you have no tolerance for the beast kind?”

Sileas shrugged. “Just trying to get home. My town’s twenty or so miles from here. Or at least it was when I left. Have the subhumans massacred everyone yet?”

The green knight’s face lit up in recognition. “Oh! You’re from one of the border towns.”

“I am,” Sileas affirmed. “Now are you going to let me though or not?”

“Well, we just have to ascertain that you aren’t bringing any weapons into Gallia. You appear to be a wind mage-”

“Sage!” Sileas corrected him. “And I haven’t got any. Let me through.” Soren knew that was a lie, and the green knight didn’t seem to buy it.

“Are you sure…”

“Yes,” Sileas hissed. “Unless you want to search me?”

After a moment of uncertainty, the young knight gave in. “That will not be necessary,” he said, gesturing that Sileas should continue down the road. “Welcome back,” he offered meekly.

Sileas tapped his horse into a walk, and Soren glanced over his shoulder at the two knights. The red knight smiled and waved. Soren glowered.

“Nice man,” the green knight sighed to his companion.

“Sweet kid,” was the red knight’s sarcastic response.

Whether or not Sileas heard them, he didn’t react.

As the miles crawled by, the trees grew thicker and older. The road shrunk to a narrow, meandering path. They passed the occasional lumber camp and tight band of woodcutters. These men and women were well-muscled and drenched in sweat as they bent their backs to fell, chop, and haul away the mighty trees. And yet they were easily startled when they heard the horse approach. When they saw Sileas, they looked relieved. Some waved, and others even greeted him by name.

Soren was not immune to the nervousness shared by Sileas and the woodcutters. An uneasy feeling came over him, as if he were being watched. The back of his neck prickled, and he twisted around in the saddle to look behind him. He peered into the shadowy forest and saw what appeared to be tail flick and disappear behind a large tree. He jolted in surprise.

“Falling asleep, boy?” Sileas accused.

Soren did not reply. He peered into the dark but saw no other sign of the creature.

They continued until the woods suddenly became thinner and younger. The path became a road again, and a village unfolded before them. It was a quaint place and resembled many Soren had seen in Crimea. Sileas relaxed for the first time since entering Gallia.

People waved and cheered when they saw him. They asked him about his journey and welcomed him back. Some asked about Soren, but Sileas answered their questions with only one-word responses and never stopped to chat.

As they trotted through the streets, Soren soon realized the village was half-empty. Many of the houses and businesses were boarded shut. Some of the streets they passed were entirely empty, filled with windblown leaves and pine needles. 

Eventually they arrived at Sileas’s home, which was a square, stone house built three quarters of the way up a steep hill. The houses on either side appeared to be abandoned, but then again, so did Sileas’s.

There was a sign out front with his name printed on it, but the paint was faded and the wood worn. Gray vines had grown over the sign, up the chimney, and on the walls as far as the window sills. The windows themselves were covered with wooden boards. Shrubs and weeds grew over a foot high in the yard between the road and the house.

“Home sweet home,” Sileas grumbled. He dismounted with a long groan and tied the horse to a lichen-encrusted post. It immediately began munching the long grass. Soren dismounted too.

He stretched his legs and continued his examination of the house and yard while Sileas patted his pockets looking for a key. The simple abode was not what he had expected. After all, Sileas had given Galina a large bag coins and spent his gold and silver almost carelessly at the inns between here and Nevassa. Soren had assumed he was rich. He had expected a mansion, perhaps a few servants, a stable full of horses, and of course wide stone steps leading up to a grand front door.

That being said, Soren was far from spoiled, and he counted this house’s advantages. It was far better than Galina’s pathetic shack. It had a wide yard, its own well, a large woodshed, and a half-stable for the old charger. The walls were made of sturdy stone, without any drafty cracks. The roof was made of slate shingles, and Soren doubted it would leak in the rain like Galina’s had. 

Sileas finally found his key and pushed open the door. Soren followed close behind, curious to see what the interior was like. The room was dark and musty-smelling, but that was to be expected. Sileas immediately set about removing the boards from the windows and pushing out the glass to let in the fresh air. Soren was impressed with the well-made glass panes.

When this was done, Sileas gave Soren a tour. “Okay,” he began gruffly. “It’s pretty simple. Stay out of the cellar—” he pointed to a hatch in the floor. “That leads to the bath—” he pointed to the only other door, which was open and through which Soren could see a large wooden basin in the middle of a small room. “Kitchen—” he pointed to the wall on the left, which had a large hearth as well as a woodstove, a dusty table, a tall cupboard, an empty pantry, a couple of stools, and some cookware hanging from the ceiling. “Do not help yourself to food. You’ll eat when fed.” He coughed once. “That’s my bed—” he pointed to a deeply sagging mattress held up by a thin wooden frame against the opposite wall. “You’ll use the sleeping mat in that chest—” he pointed to a locked trunk. “Got it?”

Soren nodded.

Sileas waved a careless hand at the rest of the home’s possessions: several full book cases, stacked chests, a wardrobe, and miscellaneous baskets and boxes. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you. We start tomorrow.” 

Soren nodded again.

Sileas glanced out the door. “Unsaddle the mare. Hang her stuff there–” he pointed to a few pegs on the wall above an empty saddle rack. “And bring the bags in. Be careful with them if you know what’s good for you.” He coughed again. “I’m hitting the sack.” With that, he stumbled over to the bed and flopped onto his belly. This released a cloud of dust, making him cough harder. But he didn’t seem to care enough to move. “Clean the chimney and start a fire if you can manage something as simple as that,” he said when he finally caught his breath. His voice was muffled by the pillow. Soon the old sage was snoring.

Soren set about his tasks with renewed vigor. _Tomorrow_ , Sileas had said. Tomorrow he would finally begin his training as a wind mage. 

When he was unclipping the horse’s saddle, he heard a woman’s voice call: “Guthrie? _Yoohoo_ , Guthrie!” The owner of the voice was marching up the hill with her skirt hiked to her knees. “I heard you were back,” she sang cheerily. “Took your time, you old rascal. But I told them you’d be back, I did!”

Now that she had reached him, however, she finally realized the person behind the horse was Soren, not his master. “Wait, who’re you?” she demanded.

Soren hesitated, not knowing how Sileas would want him introducing himself. He was considering going inside to wake him up, when the woman took a step closer and bent to peer at his face. “What is… _that?_ ”

After Galina had shorn his hair, Soren had been forced to withstand such questions for months. It had almost grown long enough to hide the dreadful mark again, but apparently not yet. He foolishly clamped his hand over his forehead, even though he knew it was a mistake.

“A cursed child!” hissed the woman, taking a step back. “Did Guthrie bring you here?”

Soren nodded once but said nothing. He glanced at the house and wondered if her shout had woken Sileas. There was no sign of him.

“Blast that senseless man!” the woman swore. “He’ll be the ruin of us all. As if we didn’t have enough trouble living in this cursed place!” She scowled and began backing away. When she seemed satisfied all Soren was going to do was stare, she twisted on her heel and dashed back down the hill.

Soren returned his attention to the big, stupid horse and resumed his task. But his excitement was gone. His life in Gallia wasn’t going to be different after all.


	3. CHAPTER 3: TRAINING

The next day, Soren and Sileas tested the well water, set poison for mice, beat the dust out of curtains and blankets, and purchased food, vulneraries, candles, lantern oil, and other supplies. Sileas met with the town mayor and some neighbors, finally regaling them with the details of his journey to and from Daein. All the while, Soren did what he was ordered to do and—even more often—did not do what he was forbidden from doing. 

His strict obedience seemed to alleviate the townspeople’s initial fear. The rumor of his birthmark had quickly spread, and he heard whispers of ‘curse,’ ‘demon,’ ‘bad luck,’ and ‘evil’ wherever he went. But Sileas persuaded the townsfolk to let Soren stay. Very few of them seemed to genuinely like Sileas, but they all respected him. They saw the sage as a powerful protector against the subhumans that haunted the woods, and they were relieved he had returned from his year abroad.

Soren soon discovered that there’d been a debate among the townsfolk concerning whether Sileas would come back at all. Apparently, people often went to ‘visit’ their families in Crimea and never returned. Now that Sileas was back, bets were settled and money changed hands.

As Soren saw more of the town, he realized that people leaving was a major problem. Butchers were pulling double-duty as candle and soap makers. Farmers sowed fields in the morning and clothes in the afternoons. Woodcutters fashioned furniture in the twilight hours. Even the children (of which there were few) were put to work darning socks, tending gardens, and cleaning chimneys. Once their concerns about his birthmark were settled, the townsfolk grumbled about Soren being another mouth to feed. 

“He’ll pull his weight,” Sileas vouched. But to Soren’s ears, it sounded like a threat. The words ‘or else’ were unspoken yet audible in the way he glanced at Soren out of the corner of his eye.

And Soren did pull his weight. In that first day of hard work, Soren not only helped Sileas rekindle his old home, he also aided the neighbors under Sileas’s watchful gaze. No matter how exhausting the work, he tried his best to do what was asked of him. He told himself it would be worth all the effort to learn wind magic.

Twilight found Soren scrubbing the floor in Sileas’s house and wondering if his master would keep his promise to begin lessons today. He glanced at the sage periodically, hoping he would say something, but he continued to ignore the boy while sorting through letters and missives left for him during his absence. If not his training, Soren hoped Sileas would stop him and say it was time for dinner. He was hungry after a hard day of work, and his fingertips felt raw. The hunger he was used to, the worn hands he was not.

Finally, Sileas sat back, coughed, and said to Soren: “Stop that now.”

Soren dropped the brush in the bucket and stretched. Sileas went to one of the shelves and selected a large tome. He pushed this into Soren’s arms, and he was momentarily surprised by its weight.

“Come,” Sileas said next, clipping on his green cloak. He walked out of the house without waiting for Soren, who scrambled to don the threadbare gray cloak Sileas had given him.

Running to catch up to the old man at the bottom of the hill, Soren then followed him down an abandoned street and out of town. Sileas didn’t stop until they arrived at a meadow at the edge of town, which was dotted with dormant fruit trees. There was a picket fence along the far side of the meadow, a paltry barrier against the dense forest. Soren knew from his role as egg-collector earlier today, that this was where the baker kept her chickens. They were sleepy and quiet in their coop now, and Soren wondered why Sileas had brought him here.

Sileas stood with his back straight and his legs apart, banishing the frailty of his sickness. For the first time, Soren could see the shadow of the colonel he’d once been. “That’s a novice’s tome. If you’re not a complete failure, you’ll be finished with it in a week.”

Soren dared to peek at the yellowed pages, each of which was crammed with tiny, ancient script. He didn’t see how that would be possible.

“Meditation, concentration, but most of all, repetition,” the sage announced. “That is the key to becoming a mage: practice. You must condition your body to contain enough magic to influence the spirits of the wind. You must expand your mind to connect with the words of power written on the page. You must make your spirit steel on the battlefield.”

Soren bobbed his head to accept these terms. _I’ll do whatever it takes_ , he promised himself.

“Let us begin,” Sileas declared ceremoniously. He then instructed Soren to open to the first page and read the spell written there.

Soren recognized some of the words and most of the letters, but there were some he could not remember, and as he struggled to pronounce them, Sileas scolded and insulted him. But amidst his barrage, he also managed remind him of the correct pronunciations.

Soren uttered the spell from start to finish and managed to create a gust of wind. As before, this unlocked the meaning of the words, but Sileas was not satisfied. Now he ordered Soren to channel the wind, narrow it to a point, and cut a single blade of grass.

It was impossible. The sun set, and Soren stood holding the heavy book until his back and legs aching. He was hungry, tired, and frustrated. Despite Sileas’s shouting, Soren could do nothing more than stir the brittle grass. He could not focus the wind to a sharp edge, let alone channel it to a single blade of grass. He worked his way through three pages of spells, and with each one, he felt weaker and weaker. He had never suspected the strain magic forced on the wielder’s body.

Eventually Sileas snatched the book from his arms and said with finality: “We’re done.”

Soren was desolate in the face of his failure. He would have remained here, practicing on his own all night if he’d been able. Despite the pain, he would have kept trying. But Sileas had taken the tome, and there was nothing he could do but follow timidly at his heels.

Once they were inside the house, Sileas replaced the tome on the shelf and gave Soren some bread and cheese, which he ate ravenously. “Fetch water for the morning and then you can sleep,” Sileas growled, making straight for his bed.

Soren obeyed and fell asleep the moment his head hit the thin mat.

Now that they’d begun, Sileas didn’t hold back. They returned to the field, and Soren practiced wind magic every day. After a week, he could sharpen the wind and aim it in a sweep parallel to the grass, but he could not always hit the grass where he was aiming. And he never narrowed it to even a few blades, let alone one. Pages flew past Soren’s fingerstips, but even by the end of the week, he had not finished the tome. Sileas made his disappointment clear.

One the last day, however, desperate not to fail, Soren remained planted in the field even after Sileas had taken the book away. He turned his attention the grass and uttered the incantation his lips knew so well while extending his mind toward the inky words he saw burned behind his eyelids. To his astonishment, the spell succeeded. The grasses blew, and a swathe at the center was cropped short. It wasn’t the success Soren had wanted, and he was about to try again when Sileas said: “Stop.”

He was standing six or so feet away, looking intrigued if nothing else. Taking a large step back, he ordered: “Try again.”

Soren did, to the same result.

Sileas took another step back. “Again.”

Soren uttered the spell again, but it was noticeably harder. He felt like he was stretching muscles he hadn’t never used. It hurt, but the spell still worked.

Sileas took yet another step. “Again.”

Soren tried, but his head immediately felt split with sharp, hot pain. He stopped mid-sentence, and pressed his hands to his temples.

“Stop,” Sileas ordered, although it wasn’t necessary. “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “You may be an imbecile, but you are still a Spirit Charmer.” He sighed. “Most students don’t practice breaking contact with the tome until their second year of training. You may not be able to cast the simplest spells, but at least you have some talent.” Sileas turned around briskly. “Come on.”

The experiment over, Soren followed him home. He wondered if Sileas would have given up and sent him away if not for this small victory. He did not want to find out and determined he would try harder, even while his head thrummed with a dull but persistent ache. 

Eventually Soren mastered the small wind spell. He exhausted all the spells in the book, and Sileas produced a new one. As the months passed, Soren lost track of the number of primers he burned through. Sileas seemed to have an infinite number of books, most of them magic tomes, and he purchased new ones every time Crimean traders visited the town.

When he wasn’t practicing wind magic, doing chores for Sileas, or being rented out to the neighbors, Soren was given other books to read. Sileas demanded he study history (especially important wars and great battles), battle theory and strategy, and the anatomy of living creatures. He also seemed to think it important that Soren have an understanding of the seven nations, their cultures, their governments, the composition of their militaries, and their imports and exports (or, in the case of the four subhuman nations, the little that was known).

He studied diligently under Sileas’s unforgiving tutelage, harsh criticism, and rare praise. Any significant failure meant being beaten with the knotted rope that hung by the door, but Soren swiftly learned to read Sileas’s voice and body language to determine which lessons were the most important. He applied himself most to these tasks, in an effort to avoid the rope’s bite. Unlike Galina, Sileas didn’t beat him out of boredom or bitterness. He seemed to honestly consider it a teaching tool.

Over time, Soren became used to the village. The subhumans stayed away, although Sileas swore they were always watching from the trees. They only entered the village once a month to distribute rations of meat, since humans were prohibited from hunting, trapping, or fishing in the Gallian forest.

The villagers ate the rations grudgingly, aware that the game had been slain by subhuman claws. Soren often heard them grumbling about how these lands had once belonged to Crimea, citing the fact that many of their parents and grandparents had hunted in these woods.

Soren had seen illustrations of subhumans in Sileas’s books. They were monstrous creatures which stood taller than a man and were covered in hair, feathers, or scales. Their eyes were feral, their fangs long, their claws curled, and their features grotesquely semi-human. But he had never seen one in person. Each time they came to town, Sileas had Soren in the field practicing or locked indoors studying. Soren wasn’t brave enough to ask for a break.

That being said, he considered it an important part of his education to see the subhumans with his own eyes and he was determined not to miss them today. Noon came when Soren was scrubbing the laundry, and he knew the beast-men would be arriving soon. Sileas was in a wooden chair in the center of the sloping yard with his eyes closed in the sun and heat. Soren didn’t know if he was sleeping, but he tried to be as silent as possible as he slipped away from the washbasin. He broke into a run when he thought Sileas wouldn’t hear his footsteps.

The rustle of urgent whispers led him to the central square where it seemed the entire village was assembled. Soren squeezed between two women, who made room as soon as they recognized him. (Just as in Nevassa, adults never wanted to touch him). From here he had a good view of the old stone table at the center of the square. There was no sign of the beast-men yet, and while he waited, he considered the stone table and the story behind it.

Not long after arriving in this village, Sileas had bid Soren learn its history by heart. A hundred or so years ago, Crimean peasants living along on the southern border had grown tired of unpredictable raids and missing cattle, on which they blamed the subhumans. Taking the law into their own hands, dozens of towns’ militia had banded together to invade Gallia, intent on seizing the forestlands and sending a message to the beasts who lived there.

Their invasion had been surprisingly successful. The Crimean king had condoned the attack, although no royal order had been given, and the Gallian king had conceded the land—albeit grudgingly—for fear of inciting total war if he tried to reclaim it. 

For decades, the human settlers had lived in conflict with the subhumans who’d been forced to relocate. The humans had sometimes formed hunting parties to enter Gallian lands and kill the beasts for sport. Other times, the subhumans had formed parties of their own and voyaged north in hairbrained attempts to oust the settlers. In either case, if a subhuman had been captured alive, they’d been strapped to this table with iron bonds, tortured, and killed as an offering to Ashera.

The raids had died out over fifty years ago, but Sileas claimed to remember seeing his parents and grandparents trotting into town dragging a subhuman behind their horse. He reminisced with bloodlust that scared Soren. 

Twenty years ago, King Ramon had taken the throne of Crimea, and one of his first decrees had been to return the stolen lands. In the agreement with Gallia, it was determined that the humans would be allowed to stay, as long as they abided certain rules. At first, most had chosen to remain. But over the years, many had given up and fled to Crimea. Only the truly stubborn ones like Sileas refused to abandon their dying towns or forget their bloody history.

Now the subhumans were forced to place packages of meat on the stone table each month as a gift to the ex-Crimeans. Soren supposed it was an arrangement neither party enjoyed.

Finally, the procession appeared, slowly marching from the woods to the altar. Soren squinted for a better look, and the first thing he noticed was that they were nothing like the illustrations in Sileas’s books. They stood like men, walked like men, had faces like men. Some grew beards, while others were clean-shaven. They were covered in skin, not fur. They wore clothes and shoes, and each carried a basket. Soren thought they were human at first. Then he noticed his mistake.

Their faces and arms were patterned with random colored markings, and Soren knew better than to think they were tattoos. Furry, pointed ears poked out of their hair, and catlike tails swept behind their legs. When they drew closer, he could see their nostrils flare, their ears swivel, and their tails twitch. Soren was entranced.

One of the big ones slowed when it neared Soren. Its eyes scanned the crowd, and its mouth parted, revealing distinct canines. It seemed to be scenting the air, like a cat. It had stopped walking entirely now, and its gaze fell on Soren (much to the boy’s horror). The one behind it reached out and gently pushed it forward. The first one immediately lifted its gaze and resumed walking.

Soon the entire envoy had passed, and none of the others had spared Soren a passing glance. The entire episode had only taken a moment, but it had left him shaken. He took a step back, and the shoulder-to-shoulder line of villagers closed in front of him.

He considered running back to Sileas. He had seen the subhumans; his mission was accomplished. But then Soren heard a voice that kept him rooted in place:

“Alright, drop it here, boys!” someone called from the altar. Soren was shocked that anyone would talk so casually to a subhuman, so he pushed through the townsfolk again for a better look. (Again, this was easily done because would rather push their neighbor than be touched by him.)

“That the last of it?” asked the voice, and to Soren’s surprise, it belonged to a subhuman standing beside the village headman.

This one was shorter and leaner than the one that had paused next to Soren. It had light blue hair, ears, and tail, and its markings were the same color—a slash across either cheek and one down the bridge of its nose. It had mismatched eyes like a stray cat Soren had once seen. One was lavender, the other turquoise, but both were piercing.

But what really transfixed Soren was the wide, good-natured smile that adorned the subhuman’s face. Such a human expression seemed incongruous with the cat ears and facial markings.

The headman stepped forward uneasily. “W-we thank you, as always, M-mister Ranulf,” he stammered.

“Uh, no problem,” the subhuman said before rolling its eyes at the others. Soren was appalled, having assumed until now that sarcasm was a singularly human trait. The subhuman held out its hand, and the headman slowly extended his shaking arm to grasp it for a fraction of a second before dropping it.

The subhuman rubbed the back of its head and grinned. “Well, back to the forest then, boys,” it commanded the others, and the procession retreated the way they’d come.

Soren watched them go and was so focused he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sileas.

He twisted to see his master’s face and was surprised to see he didn’t look particularly angry. He just looked tense like everyone else. “See those big ones?” he whispered, pointing to a specimen like the one that had paused in front of Soren. “Those are tigers. Insanely strong, even in their unshifted forms. Incredibly hard to kill, impossible when they’re in their animal forms. And those skinny ones—” he pointed to the leader “—Those are cats. Smaller, but quicker. Don’t underestimate them. The worst though, are the lions. I’ve never seen one. They’re rare. Gallia’s subhuman king is a red lion—most dangerous and terrible subhuman on Tellius.” He cleared his throat, adding, “That’s not counting the dragons of Goldoa of course. The worst of the worst.”

Soren glanced around and saw that several villagers were leaning in on the lesson.

Sileas continued his solemn murmuring: “Monsters, all of them. I pray every night for Ashera to wipe them all off the face of Tellius forever…” The others nodded and muttered agreement. Soren had never seen Sileas do anything resembling praying, but he had no doubt the sentiment was true.

The subhumans disappeared into the woods beyond the lumbermill. The villagers finally broke formation and went to pick up their rations. Gradually, they drifted back to their daily work. Parents let their children run off to play games of heroes killing subhumans.

Sileas steered Soren back to the house, but he seemed deflated now. “Come on, boy,” he said with a ghost of his usual gruffness, “You’ll work ten times harder for slipping off like that.”

Soren was pleasantly surprised. At least he wasn’t going to be beaten.

Over the months of his apprenticeship, the old sage often referred to Soren as a Spirit Charmer. Eventually, through his course of studies and the multitudes of books Sileas ordered him to read, Soren discovered what that meant.

A Spirit Charmer was a person who invited spirits into their body, creating a magical contract. Someone else could also enter the individual into the pact, and in extremely rare cases, the spirits initiated the contract with the individual. That was what Sileas thought had happened to him, but Soren wasn’t so sure. He thought he would know if spirits were feeding on his soul. In return, the spirits offered the mage great power. Sileas sometimes called him a prodigy, but Soren didn’t think he was that skilled. (After all, he often failed Sileas’s own tests.)

The sage’s sporadic reassurances were hardly reassuring, and it seemed Sileas was trying to convince himself rather than Soren. “There’s the proof,” he would say, swiping aside Soren’s bangs to stare obsessively at the mark. “Spirit Charmers always have a mark and that one’s yours. Can’t be anything else.”

Soren often wondered, if it truly couldn’t be anything else, why other people were disgusted and afraid of it. Nothing he read about Spirit Charmers indicated they were particularly disliked. But Soren was not brave enough to voice these doubts.

A year and a half after arriving in Gallia, Soren’s routine was much the same as it had been when he first arrived, save for one important factor: Sileas’s condition had gotten worse. He breathed heavily at the slightest strain and coughed constantly. As his health deteriorated, so did his temper. Vulneraries had stopped sufficing months ago, and he’d become an avid drinker. Soren grew used to the smell of booze on his master’s breath around the same time he became used to beatings with little or no provocation.

He knew Sileas kept his liquor, his vulneraries, and his remaining gold in the cellar, where Soren was forbidden. He sometimes disappeared there for hours, and Soren bided his time reading or doing chores. Sometimes Soren thought about leaving while Sileas was lost in one of his drunken reveries, but he could no longer recall the way to Crimea. And even if he could, he didn’t know anyone there. He was stuck with Sileas, and training was his only consolation. He found he enjoyed learning what the sage had to teach him, despite the accompanying abuse.

One day, an entire afternoon passed without a sign of his master. Soren stared at the cellar door, sometimes placing his ear against it. He couldn’t hear anything. Stars appeared in the sky, and another hour passed. Soren couldn’t wait anymore. He was hungry but forbidden to eat anything unless Sileas gave it to him.

He lit a lantern, heaved the cellar door open, and crawled down the wooden ladder. The ceiling was low, the walls made of stone, and the floor packed dirt. The air was musty and difficult to breathe.

In the lantern’s glow, Soren could see broken pieces of furniture, a couple of old chests, a set of shelves with even more books (although these seemed mildewed beyond repair). There were also shelves of preserved foodstuffs in jars, racks of dried herbs on the ceiling, a couple barrels of ale in the corner, and a wooden lattice suspending glass bottles.

Soren observed all of this while closing the distance between himself and Sileas, who was draped over a lopsided chair. The old man looked as limp as a rag doll, silhouetted by the lantern he’d hung behind him. The casks of ale sat on his right, and the puddles beneath their spouts made Soren wonder if they were empty yet. There were also bottles, some broken, some empty, some only half-drunk, scattered on the ground.

Soren ventured closer. Only a sliver of Sileas’s eyes could be seen, and Soren wondered if he was asleep. A moment later, he groaned and took another swig from the bottle he was currently nursing. Soren froze.

The seconds ticked by, and finally Sileas’s eyes widened. “Boy?” he croaked. Soren stepped forward, holding the lantern aloft. Sileas hiccupped, then growled, “You’re not supposed to be down here, boy.”

Soren did not retreat.

Sileas hiccupped again. “What life is this?” he asked ceiling. He ran a clumsy hand over his face. “It’s a joke, must be a joke… After years wasted in the army, I finally make colonel, just to be discharged a couple years later. They don’t like my ideas, they say. _Fools!”_ He shook his head _._ “Fools… So I join the ruddy militia, nothing else to do. And the king gives our bleedin’ land to the subhumans! So here I am, on the frontlines, living off daddy’s coin until the day comes…” His anger spiked again. “And I _know_ it’s coming! I’ve seen it! Humans fighting subhumans. Subhumans fighting subhumans. Humans fighting humans. A war like Tellius has never seen! And then…a bright light. I’ve _seen_ it.” He took another swig. “I’ve dreamed it, anyway… I know it’s coming. But they never believe me. They’re not ready. But me- _I’m_ ready.” He sighed, then spat out a chuckle. “I’m the only one ready. And I’m gonna die before the war hits!” He coughed. “A joke. It’s a joke, I tell you,” he wheezed.

Soren had heard most of this before. The villagers talked about it too behind Sileas’s back. They gossiped about his paranoia and his obsession with a nonexistent war.

Soren considered returning to the house now that he’d confirmed Sileas was still alive down here. And if he stole some food, it was possible Sileas would think he’d eaten it himself in a drunken stupor. He turned to go, but the sage’s next words stopped him in his tracks:

“And then there’s _you_ , my apprentice.” Sileas raised his unfocused eyes to Soren’s face, and disgust colored his features. Other people looked at him like that, but never Sileas. “A Sprit Charmer? _Pah!_ ” The sage spat on the ground. “An old fool’s false hope. It was the one thing that could make this life worthwhile—passing on all I know to a student who could really _become_ someone. I was fooling myself, leading myself on… You’re no Sprit Charmer.” He forced a laugh. “You’re supposed to see it, you know? You can see the spirits at work when a Spirit Charmer does magic. I watched you recite spells for a year, and I tried so hard to convince myself… _Ha!_ I’m a fool.” He took another swig. “And here is the _really_ good part,” he giggled and hiccupped. “You’re a filthy Branded!” His laughter was hysterical now, but it was far from a joyous sound. “Goddess forgive me,” he wheezed between bouts of laughter and coughing. Self-pity burned in his red-rimmed eyes.

Soren’ stomach went cold. For the second time in his short life, he feared his caregiver was going to kill him. But Sileas went back to his bottle, his words becoming too garbled to understand. Soren slowly retreated, and when he reached the ladder, he climbed as quickly as he could. Slamming the trap door behind him, part of Soren hoped Sileas would never emerge.

Of course, Sileas did eventually leave the cellar. He sobered up for a while before getting drunk again. Days passed, and Sileas did not kill Soren. But he never called him a Spirit Charmer again either. Nor did he call him ‘Branded’ or explain what that meant.

Soren could almost imagine nothing had changed, but there was one major difference. Since coming here, Sileas had defended Soren from the town’s other children. Particularly troublesome were two boys in their early teens, each counting the days until they were old enough to start their own lives in Crimea. They were bitter and bored, and tormenting Soren was their favorite pastime. Sileas had always protected him from the worst of it, but that stopped now. As if sensing the new vulnerability of their prey, the boys pursued him like hungry wolves. Soren dreaded unchaperoned errands around the town, but Sileas would push, prod, or strike him until he left the house.

Sometimes Soren would lie very still beside the road, after having been beaten and pissed on by the teens, and he would listen to people’s footsteps hurry past. He imagined he was a piece of refuse nobody wanted to clean up.

It was more important now than ever that he become a mage, so he could defend himself, so he could leave Sileas’s sorry excuse for care, so he could have some measure of value. Soren strove to study harder, imagining that if he just worked hard enough, everything would change.

Another year passed, and things started to fall apart. Sileas’s disease took a turn for the worse. He drank faster than he could refill his stores. The trade caravans were coming less often, and the local woman who’d made moonshine left town. She wasn’t the only one. Traders came more rarely because there wasn’t enough business for them here.

But Sileas stubbornly refused to leave. An infestation of wood mites seized his house, chewing through one of the legs of the bed. Bed flees colonized the mattress, and Sileas burned the whole thing. He reappropriated Soren’s sleeping mat, which was now worn down to almost nothing, and Soren was left only with his moth-eaten blanket and the bare floor. Book worms devoured Sileas’s library, ruining the tomes’ fragile pages. The old warhorse got sick and died suddenly.

Worst of all, Soren could tell Sileas was running out of money. The pantry was never full, and the sage never purchased any new books when the traders did come. Instead Sileas attempted to sell some of his possessions, but he had nothing of real value to barter.

Then, one morning, it happened. Soren woke up early to draw water from the well, as he did every day. Sileas lay asleep on his mat, as always. He tiptoed past his master five times until the water barrel was full. Then he poured Sileas a cup and placed it on the floor next to the him. He was about to scrounge something out of the pantry before Sileas woke up (Sileas wasn’t alert enough to notice a missing scrap of bread these days) when he noticed something wasn’t right. It was too quiet. He hadn’t really noticed before, but Sileas’s labored breathing had always filled the little house. Now that was no longer the case.

Soren crept closer and stared at his aged, poorly-shaven face. He waited for some movement to cross his gaunt, bristly cheeks. He waited for a burst of Sileas’s horrible-smelling breath to fill his face. But nothing happened. He was completely still, completely limp. His chest didn’t rise or fall.

 _Dead,_ Soren thought in disbelief, then adding bitterly: _Took the him long enough._ But then panic blossomed in Soren’s chest, and he couldn’t move a muscle. Although he started to sweat, his hands and feet felt cold. His eyes were pinned to the dead sage, but his peripheral vision turned to grey. When he could finally move again, he stood, paced, and shook the corpse repeatedly as if trying to wake the man up.

Soren had known this was coming, and yet he hadn’t been prepared for it. He couldn’t have prepared for it. He may have learned a lot during the past couple years, but he was still only a child. How could he provide for himself here at the edge of Gallia? None of the villagers would take him in. In fact, they would probably run him out of town once they found out Sileas was gone.

A sudden idea shot through Soren’s mind like a lightning bolt: _No one must find out he’s dead…at least not yet._ That would give him time to figure out a plan.

He rolled and dragged the corpse to the cellar door. This was fairly manageable, because disease had wasted away the sage’s body to almost nothing. Then, with a final shove, Soren pushed the body into the dark. It landed on its head with a crack that sent a shiver down his spine. He closed and barred the trapdoor.

Soren spent five days in that house, and despite his best efforts, he could not form a suitable plan. He did not know the way back to Crimea, and Sileas appeared to own no maps of the immediate area. Even if he did return to Crimea, he had no idea where to go or what to do. But he couldn’t stay here either. This town was dying, and the people hated him.

When the last crumb in the pantry was gone, he was forced to leave with or without a plan. The smell of decay drifting from the cellar was another incentive to depart.

He used wind magic to break into Sileas’s wooden chests. He knew the key was on his person, but he refused to go into the cellar to retrieve it. Inside Soren found dusty black cloaks and trousers. All were too big for Soren, but he cut off the hems and tied them tight around his waist with a belt. He found a worn leather satchel, in which there was room enough for a single wind tome, a canteen of water, the last of the bread, and a handful of seeds he’d found at the bottom of a basket. 

When he was as a ready as he’d ever be, he set his shoulders and left the house. After days of racking his brain, Soren was fairly certain he and Sileas had entered the town from the west road, so he set off in that direction. But whenever he saw villagers ahead, he abandoned the road, only to loop back to it later. He gave the lumber camps a wide berth and managed to avoid notice. Not long after this, the cobblestone path turned into packed dirt scattered with conifer needles. And as the day wore on, the shadows between the thick trunks grew darker and more menacing.

The bread and seeds were gone by the end of the next day, despite his attempt to ration them. He had no compass (Sileas’s had been in his pocket when dropped into the cellar), so he relied on the sun. But it was lost most of the day behind the tall forest canopy. Sileas had told him once that moss tended to grow on the north side of trees, but moss seemed to grow on all sides of trees here. Ultimately Soren could only pass through the hall of redwood columns and hope it was leading him somewhere.

Sometimes the path dwindled to almost nothing, and other times he lost it completely and had to double back to find it. When this happened, he could not be certain the path he rejoined was the one he’d left, and he couldn’t help but fear he was going in circles. He passed two abandoned lumber camps and three abandoned shacks. But these places were long deserted, and he could scavenge no food.

On the third day, the path widened, even if it was covered in decomposing leaves and needles, and the trees thinned. He walked into an eerily silent town. No smoke floated from the chimneys, and there was no sign of animals other than the droppings left by birds and rodents. There were certainly no humans around, and Soren realized the village must have been completely abandoned. Sileas’s neighbors and fellow townsfolk had spoken of towns like this, always with an air of disapproval.

Soren explored the vacant houses and yards looking for food, and although it was clear no one had been here in years, some of their vegetable patches and fruit trees continued to sprout unruly offerings. Soren collected what he could find.

He stayed in the ghost town a couple days, and when there was nothing left for him here, he took the north road out of town. He knew Crimea was to the north, and so this was his best option. However, the path soon curved, and before long it branched. Soren tried to continue north, but he soon lost his way again.

It was late summer, and in the humid forests of Gallia, that meant it was hot. Soren did not have to worry about building fires to stay warm at night, but finding clean running water was always a concern. He forced himself to leave the path when he heard the trickle of a brook, despite his fear that subhumans lurked among the trees.

He was hungry and thirsty, but above all, he was afraid. He constantly imagined a feral subhuman would appear behind the next tree trunk. Every rustle and snapped twig sent his heart pounding like a rabbit’s.

One day after leaving the ghost town, the usual rustle was accompanied by a growl, and his worst fears came true. He spun toward the sound and saw a massive beast standing only a dozen yards away. It was a huge, red-furred tiger with saber teeth and a face of whiskers. A tall ruff ran from the top of its head, between its shoulder blades, and down its spine. Its slinking pelt pulled against muscle and sinew as it took two steps closer. Its long tail flicked left and right like a metronome. Soren knew he was seeing a tiger subhuman in its animal form

He dropped to the forest floor as quickly and quietly as he could, hiding himself behind a large root. But he could not stand not to look, so he peeked over the edge to see what the beast would do.

The tiger seemed to be staring in his direction, mouth slightly open as if scenting the air, but it had not taken another step. Frozen and with his heart beating fast, Soren nearly yelped when a second tiger suddenly pounced in front of the first. This one was gray and even bigger, but Soren had not heard it approach.

“Lieutenant Gira” a woman’s voice emerged from the red beast’s softly articulating lips. It inclined its head.

“Shanrua,” the gray beast acknowledged in a man’s voice. Soren did not know what was stranger—that the subhuman’s animal bodies had no distinguishing anatomy, or that they were able to speak human words from these fanged mouths. “Stay with the patrol,” the gray ordered. Its voice was lowered in warning.

The red lowered its body in a submissive response. “My apologies. But I smelled something that-”

“You smelled nothing,” the gray cut her off. “Understand?”

The red bobbed its shaggy head. “Yes, Lieutenant .” 

“You are still a pup yet,” the gray sighed. “Let us return to the patrol.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” it repeated. The pair bounded off in the same direction.

Soren remained frozen long after they were gone, and when he finally moved again, he found he was shaking. He was glad to be alive, but he wished he knew why he ‘d been spared. It seemed impossible that the red tiger hadn’t seen him, and both should have smelled him if their senses were as acute as Sileas’s books claimed. Whatever the case, Soren could only keep moving. The sooner he reached Crimea, the better


	4. CHAPTER 4: IKE

Every day felt like an eternity to Soren. He tried to find his way out of the maddening forest but could not. Over the next few days, he saw subhumans often enough, sometimes in their animal forms and sometimes in their human forms, and he had to assume he had wandered into one of their residential areas. He couldn’t call it a town, or even a village, because it did not resemble any human settlement he’d ever seen. The small homes were scattered haphazardly, and their occupants appeared migratory.

But he was forced to stay close to these settlements if he wanted to survive. They were always built close to clean water, and by following the subhumans’ pawprints, he was able to find fruit trees, now ripe as summer’s end.

As for the subhumans themselves, every single one ignored him, and after a while, Soren wondered if the horror stories about them had been extremely exaggerated. Despite their ghastly appearances, they did not seem dangerous. That being said, Soren was not about to take any chances. He kept his distance and never strayed too close to one of their huts. He walked their paths out of necessity, but he made himself scarce if any subhuman came bounding along.

There were fish in the river, which Soren occasionally managed to catch and kill with a well-aimed wind spell. Unfortunately, he had to eat these raw. Sileas had taught Soren many skills, but he’d never bothered to teach him how to make a fire. The sage himself probably hadn’t known, because he’d always used magic. The simplest fire or thunder spell would make a spark, and a decent spell could burn even damp wood. Back at the house, Soren had used matches when necessary, but he had none now. As the nights grew cooler, he wondered what he would do when autumn came.

As the weeks wore on and his body waned, Soren’s frustration and hatred of the subhumans intensified. Their ignoring him could indicate nothing but the fact that they had judged him and deemed him worthless. They saw him as nothing, and Soren couldn’t stand it. The people in Nevassa and Sileas’s village had been cruel, but at least they’d acknowledged his existence.

Eventually his hate burned low, becoming dying embers rather than leaping flames. It was too exhausting to be angry, and he didn’t have much energy left. Now that it was truly autumn, the fruit trees were empty, and even the fish seemed to have moved elsewhere. He was always hungry; his stomach always hurt. The nights were getting colder, and he was getting weaker. He could hardly sleep at night, terrified that he would never wake up, and so he was constantly exhausted. He felt sick. His mind wandered, and he lost track of the days.

If he felt clearheaded and brave enough, he would attempt to make his way north, but he never made it out of Gallia. Part of Soren wondered if Crimea even existed. He wondered if he had imagined it and Daein. Perhaps Gallia was the whole world, and perhaps there’d never been any other humans at all.

The rational part of Soren’s mind new these were nothing but nightmares. He told himself to trust his memory and his senses. He tried to be logical, but logic only told him that he would not survive much longer. He needed help, real food, a roof to sleep under, and directions back to civilization. He would do anything for that—even walk straight into a subhuman village. Eventually he did. 

Soren stumbled past a cottage, coming down the path that led to the apple trees, to a place where the subhumans tended to gather for communal chores. He tried to walk cautiously, but he was swaying on his feet. There were no warning growls. None of the subhumans transformed, or even looked in his direction. But on closer inspection, Soren noticed that their tails flicked restlessly and their ears were pointed toward him even if their eyes were not. They were quieter than usual. A female ushered its child away. _So, they do see me,_ Soren thought and then reminded himself that of course they could—he was not yet a ghost.

He walked up to a motherly-looking tiger subhuman. It was standing with its hands splayed on its large hips, arms akimbo. It had tawny skin and dark green hair, ears, and tail. It showed no acknowledgment of his approach. Soren’s heart pounded as he opened his mouth to speak. But then he came to a horrifying realization: he couldn’t.

He took a step back. He shook his head. He looked up at the subhuman. He tried again but still couldn’t formulate the sounds. His heart raced even faster. He began gesturing like a madman. He waved his arms around, making motions to his mouth for food. He pointed to the subhuman and to himself, but it never even glanced at him. In a blind panic, Soren spun around and ran out of the village.

Once safely in the woods, he collapsed behind a fallen log and hugged his knees. He couldn’t speak. He never had before, but he hadn’t thought it was because he was unable. It had been a choice. He’d never had anyone to talk to. He’d never had any reason to speak. Galina and Sileas had always done the talking.

Soren’s head swam. The forest had never seemed so silent. He wondered franticly what his own voice sounded like. He tried again and again to say something, but only disjointed sounds and syllables came out. He could understand the language of Tellius perfectly—he could read and write it with ease—but Soren could not speak it.

Tears collected along the rim of his eyes, blotting out his already blurred vision. He had not cried in years, but now tears and mucus surged out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. The sobs took his breath away, and soon he fell unconscious.

When he awoke, his eyes felt puffy and painful, but they were dry again. Getting to his feet, he told himself his energy was better spent walking than crying. Right now, all he wanted was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the subhuman village.

He had no food and his canteen quickly ran dry, but he kept walking anyway. Spots swam in front of his eyes. He wondered if he would soon be a corpse like Sileas. He wondered if he would soon give off that putrid scent. He wondered what death would be like, and what really lay beyond, if anything. He wondered if Ashera would hate him like everyone else did.

Deep in these thoughts, Soren didn’t hear the rustling ahead. If he’d cared to notice, he would have realized it was not the heavy, careful footsteps of a subhuman.

“Hey,” said a cheerful voice. Soren whipped his head toward the sound, and the motion made his vision spin. He wobbled and was about to fall when a small, soft, warm hand grabbed his arm. “Careful!” warned the voice.

Soren’s vision cleared enough to reveal a boy standing in front of him. The boy was probably around his age, and he wore an oblivious smile on his round cheeks. His had dark blue hair, and his eyes were blue too, but lighter. These eyes were wide and unguarded, and Soren was baffled by them.

The boy released his arm, and Soren was surprised to feel a twinge of sadness at the loss. He couldn’t remember the last time another person had willingly touched him, and it certainly hadn’t been this gently.

“My name is Ike,” the boy said, “I was looking for a good sword, but this one isn’t that good.” Soren noticed he was carrying a stick in his right hand. “Wanna help me find one?”

Soren didn’t understand, but he knew he wanted to stay with this other human being. He nodded.

“Oh, good!” the boy beamed, “Maybe you can find one too, and then we can fight each other. It’ll be fun.”

Soren nodded again—anything to keep Ike from leaving him alone.

The boy started off through the woods, scanning the forest floor for worthy weapons and batting aside bushes left and right with his stick. Soren followed, concentrating hard on staying upright and not falling behind. Ike glanced back. “This is fun, isn’t it? Um, hey what’s your name anyway?”

Soren desperately wanted to answer. All he needed to do was say one word, the word that defined him: his name. _Why can’t I just say my name?_ he lamented.

Ike waited. “Can’t you talk?” he asked, cocking his head.

“S-sh-so-sor- _enn_ ,” Soren strained.

“Sore end?” Ike laughed, “That’s a funny name.”

“So-ren,” Soren repeated, more smoothly this time.

“Oh, okay.” Ike smiled widely, showing off two gaps from missing teeth. “Well come on, Soren!” He set off once again in search of a good stick, and it did not take long this time. Ike held his chosen stick high in the air. “Yay! This one is perfect! Now I should probably go back. Momma told me not to wander off.” He made a devious-looking face. “She is going to be _mad_.” With a laugh, he started walking back toward the path.

Soren hesitated but then trailed after Ike again. He was wary of meeting another person, especially an adult who may not be as naively accepting of Soren’s presence as Ike.

“Come on!” Ike’s pace quickened when the road widened and the trees thinned. “We can find you a sword after lunch.”

Soren’s stomach groaned hollowly at the word.

Ike turned around and tilted his head. “Oh, you must be hungry,” he observed, as if the thought had just occurred to him. Setting down his chosen stick, he looped something off his back. It appeared to be a box made of thin wood and fastened with two cloth straps for his shoulders. Undoing a leather fastener, he lifted the top, and Soren was instantly overwhelmed by the smell of food. “Here, you can have my lunch right now if you want.”

Ike withdrew a handkerchief, and Soren stared as he placed each of the contents on it like a tiny picnic. Tightly packed in the box was a shiny red apple, a wedge of white cheese in wax paper, a heel of crunchy bread, a slice of smoked sausage, and a tin of marinated carrots. Lastly the boy removed a small glass bottle of what appeared to be creamy milk and a round pastry sticky with honey and wrapped in paper. All of these things had been so neatly packed into the box, Soren found himself wondering who had created such a microcosm of beauty for this blue-haired boy and why they had done it.

Ike watched Soren stare at the food. “It’s okay. You can have it. My momma will make me another one if I say I lost it.”

He still didn’t move.

“It’s okay,” Ike repeated. “If you’re hungry you should eat something. You don’t have your own food, do you?”

Soren shook his head.

“What’s the problem then? Do you not like carrots? You don’t have to eat them if you don’t like them. I don’t really like them, but Father makes me eat them anyway.”

Soren finally kneeled. He reached for the carrots first.

Ike grinned. “Father says that I have to eat them if I want to grow up to be big and strong like him. He’s really strong, you know. He can fight with a real sword, and it’s really sharp and really heavy.”

Ike continued to prattle away while Soren rapidly devoured the meal.

“Wow, you ate so fast!” Ike said when he finished. Soren licked the remnants of honey off his dirty hands. “Ew.” He made a face. “Maybe you shoulda washed your hands first. Momma’s always telling me to wash my hands before I eat, but sometimes I don’t.”

Soren lowered his hands, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He was covered in dirt from head to toe, and he had pine needles in his knotted hair.

Ike placed the tin, bottle, handkerchief, and spent paper to the box and donned it again. Soren considered the fact that his claim that he’d lost the box would not make sense if he returned with it and not the food, but he couldn’t point this out because he couldn’t speak.

“C’mon, let’s go back to town.” Ike stood again and retrieve his stick. “Momma’s sure gonna be mad I’ve been gone so long.”

Soren turned his gaze down the road. As expected, Ike was leading him to a human village, but Soren was suddenly unsure whether he wanted to go with him. He meekly followed the boy’s confident steps, but when the sounds and smells of the town reached him, he froze.

He heard distant voices chatting and calling, even though he could not isolate the exact words. It was the noise of a human town: regular people going about their regular lives. The voices were not angry, or fearful, or bent under the pressure of hatred, but Soren knew how voices could change when their owners set eyes on him. He had become used to it, but suddenly, he had trouble accepting it.

For the first time in his life, Soren had been shown nothing but kindness from another person. But if Soren entered this town with him, Ike would soon learn from his parents, neighbors, and peers that he’d been wrong to treat Soren so well. He would learn that Soren was not his equal, and he would never look at Soren with those unguarded eyes again.

“What’s the matter?” Ike asked, turning around in the middle of the road.

Soren hesitated and then shook his head.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Soren shook his head again.

“Oh, do you not live in town?” he asked, as if his were perfectly acceptable.

Soren nodded slowly.

“Where do you live then?” he asked curiously.

Soren hesitated, and then just pointed sideways, into the woods. It was the only answer he had.

Ike cocked his head. “That’s silly,” he admonished. “Why don’t you come with me instead?” He extended one hand, holding the palm up.

Soren imagined he could still feel its warm touch on his arm. He wanted to take it; his fingers twitched. But then he shook his head.

“Okay then,” Ike sighed, and Soren was surprised to see how sad the boy had become. “Can I come back and play tomorrow?” he asked hopefully—a ray of light in his sudden melancholy.

Soren nodded once, and Ike seemed to perk up. “I’ll bring more to eat next time,” he promised. “Meet me here at the same time as today.”

Soren nodded again.

Ike grinned widely, and a moment later, he was running back into town. Soren waited until Ike disappeared and then slunk into the woods. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone else.

Over the next few days, Soren circled the town, memorizing all of the paths that came to and from it. The north side of the village overlooked a small cliff, beyond which stretched fields and pastures surrounded by low stone walls. This was an agrarian town, unlike Sileas’s village, and perhaps this self-sufficiency was the reason this one survived when others had been abandoned. Soren avoided the people who lived here, only revealing himself to Ike in the same part of the woods every day or so.

At night he wandered in the town’s fields, although he avoided the pastures where shepherds kept their tired eyes on tree line. He was able to steal enough food to supplement what Ike gave him, and he gradually regained a little strength.

Meanwhile he devoted much of each day to practicing his speech. Upon pronouncing his name to Ike, he’d realized he was not unable to speak. In retrospect it was obvious—he’d been speaking the ancient language for years now. It was only the modern tongue he found difficult, and even when he managed to utter a sentence from beginning to end, he found it contained the wobbly vowels of the ancient language. Many of the consonants were slurred in order to sound more like the incantation of spells, and certain sounds that did not exist in the ancient language were particularly troublesome.

However, Soren was persistent. He told himself that if he perfected his ability to speak, perhaps he would be able to enter the village unafraid. Perhaps if he could utter the word ‘help,’ people would look on him with pity instead of disgust. He clung to this idea, even while he doubted it. And although he practiced many words, ‘help’ was not one of them. If he dared try to speak the word, he was transported back to the subhuman village. Terror would seize his throat, and he wouldn’t be able to make a sound.

After two weeks, Soren had grown quite used to his routine. His speech had become passable, and yet he still didn’t speak when Ike visited and still didn’t walk into town. He felt as if he were waiting for something, but he didn’t know what.

His routine was interrupted one day when Soren heard a child’s voice in the woods and quickened his pace to reach Ike, who seemed early today. But it was not Ike at all, and he realized this fact only when he’d revealed himself to the three young boys playing between the roots of an ancient tree. Their carousing stopped as soon as they saw Soren, and the one who had been speaking fell silent mid-sentence.

Soren stared at the boys, and the boys stared at Soren.

“Who the heck are you?” the biggest one asked incredulously.

“Careful, Hedwin, he might be a subhuman,” the smallest one whispered urgently.

“This pipsqueak? No way!” the big one—Hedwin—took three steps forward, and Soren took a cautious step back.

“He’s weird alright,” the third and final boy observed. “What’s that on his face?”

“Hey what’s that on your face?” the big one, Hedwin, demanded.

Soren’s heart was beating fast now that he had been discovered. Realizing he had no chance of fending off these children, he determined his best option was to lose them in the woods. So, without another second’s hesitation, Soren ran.

“Hey!” Hedwin cried, and the crunching footsteps behind Soren indicated the boy was giving chase.

“Get him!” called the smallest one’s voice, its breathlessness and nearness indicating that he was also in pursuit.

“Don’t let him get away!” shouted the third boy, also panting.

Soren did not get far before the big kid tackled him to the ground. Soren wriggled and kicked, but he was no match for the youngest in this group, let alone the oldest. He realized he had miscalculated, forgetting to take into account these boys’ longer legs. There’d never been any chance of escape.

Hedwin got his knee on his stomach, and Soren scratched with both hands trying to get him off. In return, Hedwin laid one fat fist into his cheek. But Soren had been beaten by adults too many times for this meager punch to dissuade him from fighting, so he continued to scrabble, push, and pull to get away. Meanwhile Hedwin punched the side of his head and his eye twice.

The last one really hurt, and Soren stopped fighting in order to lay both his arms over his face. The other two boys were laughing, and one of them was doing a little dance while alternatingly trying to step on Soren’s kicking feet. Hedwin, meanwhile, was trying to prise away Soren’s skinny arms. It wasn’t hard, and the moment they were gone, he delivered a blow to the other side.

Soren tried to form a wind spell, aware that his tome was on the ground beside him, but he couldn’t get out more than a word.

“What’s he mumbling about?” one of the kids asked.

“Is he really trying to scare us with that mumbo-jumbo?” said the other.

“Well it ain’t scaring me,” Hedwin laughed.

Soren was ready to give up when he heard something the other boys hadn’t yet noticed: the high-pitched keen of a child’s battle cry. Looking past Hedwin, Soren could see Ike running and screaming from a long way off. The boy’s hands were outstretched all the while. A moment later, the boys realized what the sound was and turned to watch Ike run toward them. Hedwin shifted his weight so that it pressed down on the point of his knee, right into Soren’s kidney.

“Not that kid,” Hedwin spat.

“Well if it isn’t Ike the Dunce,” observed the middle-sized boy.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” the youngest groaned.

Although they seemed unconcerned by his charge, Ike continued to holler, and he only ran faster as he approached.

“Shut up, kid, you’ll yell yourself hoarse!” Hedwin called.

Ike, however, did not stop screaming; nor did he slow down or change direction. He barreled right into the middle-sized kid, much to his surprise. “Hey, stop it!” he shouted when Ike was on top of him, hitting him and pulling his hair.

Ike never stopped yelling once. He was a furry of tiny blows even while the youngest boy tried to wrap his arms under Ike’s armpits and pull him off.

“Grab him!” Hedwin ordered and sprung off of Soren to help.

Soren immediately curled into a fetal position and willed the latent pain in his abdomen to go away. From his vantage point on the ground, he could see the two younger boys pinning Ike’s arms and legs to the ground while Hedwin started wailing on him in much the same way he had just assaulted Soren’s face.

His first thought was that Ike had been stupid to charge in here when he was clearly outmatched and especially stupid to be continuously yelling like that. It was accomplishing nothing except tiring him out. Ike had barreled into the situation with absolutely no plan, and now he was paying the price.

Those were Soren’s first thoughts, but as soon as they had flickered through his mind, they were replaced with one, more important thing: Ike needed his help. No one had ever needed Soren’s help before. On the other hand, no one had come to Soren’s rescue before either, no one but Ike.

Uncurling and getting to his knees, Soren seized his wind tome with shaking hands. Then getting to his feet, he started reciting the incantation with more fervor than ever before. He shouted the words at the top of his lungs, and a gust of wind blew Hedwin right off of Ike. The boy actually tumbled over Ike’s head and landed on his face. The other two boys loosened their grip in shock.

Ike immediately fought free and tackled the youngest to the ground. Now Ike was the one punching. Hedwin, meanwhile, was rounding on Soren. “What. Did. You. Just. Do!” He demanded as if each word were a threat. He stalked toward Soren while the middle-sized boy wacked Ike in the ear with a stick to get him off of the other one.

Soren stared Hedwin down and began incanting again. This time he spoke more quietly, but with as much focus as he could muster. He willed this spell to sharpen and sent is flying at Hedwin’s fat face.

The boy didn’t know to anticipate an attack, and he couldn’t see the gust coming. It set him flying into the dirt again, this time tearing four long scratches from his nose, across his cheek, and through his ear. He clamped his hands over the wound, suddenly sobbing and rocking back and forth.

The other two boys froze when they saw their leader crying like a baby. With one look at Soren, they both ran to Hedwin’s side. “I knew it,” squeaked the youngest. “I knew he there was something not right about that kid!”

“Let’s get out of here!” the middle-sized boy yelled. He grabbed Hedwin’s arm, yanking him up and pulling him along. All three boys were gone in an instant.

“You’d better run!” Ike called victoriously, fist in the air. His lip was split and he spat a glob of bloody saliva in the dirt, but he was smiling.

Soren stared as if seeing him for the first time.

“What was that?” Ike turned to him. “That was amazing!”

Soren closed his tome and tucked it under his arm. “W-win mash-gic,” he said carefully.

“Hey, I thought you couldn’t talk?” Ike replied slyly, as if he were being tricked (but also as if he didn’t particular mind if he were).

“No-t well,” Soren answered.

Ike was still beaming about their victory. “We’re a pretty good team, aren’t we?”

Soren hesitated but then nodded. He had just noticed that Ike was missing an additional tooth. He pointed to his own mouth to signify this. “D-t-tooth,” he said.

Ike immediately touched the gap. His eyes widened. “We’ve got to find it!” he said excitedly. “I’ve been waiting ages for that one to come out!” He immediately began searching the forest floor.

Soren cocked his head in confusion. But Ike wasn’t looking at him, so he had to ask outright: “Why?”

“The tooth fairy, of course!” he said. “Don’t you know about the tooth fairy?”

Soren shook his head.

“It’s a magical spirit that gives you a coin or a piece of candy for your old teeth,” Ike explained. “But I can’t put it under my pillow if I don’t have it!” He seemed genuinely distressed, and although Soren realized this was one of those silly fairytales parents tell their children, he decided not to tell Ike this for fear of distressing him further. He owed Ike for saving him today, so he set his eyes on the ground and helped him search.

****

Upon finding the tooth, Ike placed it in his lunch box and the two boys divided the food as they normally did. Now that the adrenaline had left him, Ike was clearly feeling his injuries and kept touching his bruised face. Soren wasn’t feeling well either, but he refrained from touching the scratches and bruises because he knew that was only going to make them hurt more.

“Mom’s going to be mad at me for getting into a fight,” Ike moaned after a while. “And I just know stupid Heddy is just going to say we started it. He always says that, and because he says it first, the grown-ups believe him. He’s probably back telling stories and crying like a baby right now.” Ike angrily crumbled his piece of bread instead of eating it.

Soren could hardly stand to see the waste of food, but he had more important thoughts on his mind right. He turned his face toward town, suddenly afraid a troop of adults would come marching through the trees at any second. _What will they do if they find me?_ he wondered. There had been a chance before that they would show him pity, but now that he’d maimed one of their own? He didn’t want to imagine what his punishment would be.

Perhaps Ike noticed the sudden panic consuming him, because he leaned forward as if concerned. “You okay?”

Soren didn’t answer.

“Are you worried about getting into trouble too?”

Soren nodded.

“It’s okay,” Ike consoled, patting his head in a way that made Soren go rigid. “I’ve been in trouble loads of time before. It’s not that bad.” Ike patted his head two more times before settling back down.

Soren felt like a spell had been broken and he could finally move. He stared at the little naïve boy and could hardly believe such a foolishly endearing child could possibly exist.

Ike returned to his people, and Soren set about erasing any sign of his presence. He didn’t know how long it would take the men of Ike’s village to set up a search party and seek out the perpetrator of their boys’ attack. But he doubted he would have more than an hour, and his time spent with Ike had already taken away from that window.

Not daring to wait a moment longer, Soren climbed a tree he’d previously selected for an event such as this, intending to curl himself into a hollow above two think branches. He had sought out a potential hiding place and marked this tree in his memory on one of his first days here. That being said, Soren now wished he’d practiced the climb more often in the past two weeks, because climbing was not his forte and he struggled to pull his small frame over limb after limb of the half-dead tree. The hollow was about twenty feet up, and he knew falling from this height would mean his death.

When he finally reached the depression of relative safety, he curled around his tome, wrapped his cloak around his body, and finally tested the wounds left by the other kids. He grimaced at the pain, but it was necessary to determine how serious the cuts and bruises might be. He’d just determined they were not too serious at all, when he heard men’s voices below.

“I’m telling you it’s subhumans! We can’t take ‘em with pitchforks and whatnot. We _need_ real weapons.”

“That would be against the rules,” someone growled in a deep voice. “We must not incite violence.”

“Incite violence?” returned a third voice. “They started it by attacking one of us!”

“Well, we don’t know that for certain,” someone offered timidly.

“You saw those claw marks same as anyone!”

“Those weren’t claw marks—your stupid kid probably just got whacked in the face with a branch. Now he’s embarrassed and making up stories.”

“Hedwin wouldn’t do such a thing!”

“Ike was there too, wasn’t he, Greil? What did he say?”

“He claims to have bested young Hedwin on his own,” the deep, calm voice replied.

“That’s a laugh!”

“That boy lives in a daydream.”

“Perhaps,” the man—Greil—answered. “Or perhaps he is lying to protect someone.”

Soren peeked from his hiding place and finally saw the men whose conversation he was overhearing. There were six of them, all holding some sort of makeshift weapon ranging from a woodcutting ax to a field hoe. The man who had just been speaking was one of the tallest among them. He walked with the posture of a soldier, and yet he lazily carried his shovel over his shoulder as if he had no intention of using it. The other men gripped their tools tightly, even those trying to hide their nervousness. This was the first time Soren had seen a member of Ike’s family, and he watched the man closely.

“Who could be out here if not a subhuman?” asked one of the other men, shivering.

“Maybe someone from the other villages?”

“The villages are all but gone,” another shot back. “ _We_ shouldn’t even be here anymore.”

“Take yer family and go, then,” grumbled someone else. “Who needs ya.”

“Nobody’s leaving,” someone argued back. “Don’t let a little boy scare you with stories of ghouls in the woods.”

“He and the others really shouldn’t have been out here anyway,” someone asserted with the smug tone. “Maybe now they’ll think twice before wandering away from town.”

The voices became muffled and harder to pick out now that they’d passed Soren’s tree and moved on. Their conversation disappeared, and Soren breathed a sigh of relief.

He did not see the men nor hear their voices again for the rest of the day or night, but he remained in his hiding place until the next morning anyway. He was exhausted, having not slept for fear of falling, and he was parched with thirst. His body ached from the beating, and his stomach was empty again.

Ike did not reappear that day, and Soren wondered, not for the first time, why he was still here. He knew Crimea lay to the north. He needed only to keep to the right paths this time and he would eventually find his way to the human world. Ike had demonstrated that people were capable of being kind, even if he was only one boy.

Soren found himself hoping for something more than pity; Ike had made him dream of acceptance. Perhaps it was for that reason Soren did not want to leave without saying goodbye. Or perhaps it was because Ike had lied to try to protect him from the adults, and he wanted to understand why.

Two more days passed, and Soren survived by stealing from the town’s fields and storehouses. There was no increased security, and the search party never returned to the woods. It seemed the townspeople did not believe Hedwin’s injury was due to either a bloodthirsty subhuman or a strange boy-mage living in the woods, and Soren was glad for their skepticism.

On the third day, Soren finally saw Ike again, but the boy was not in the part of the forest where they usually met. Soren was on his way there after trying to catch crawfish by turning over rocks in the stream. His hands and feet were numb from the cold water, and he was stumbling with his fists in his armpits when he heard the boy humming nearby.

Soren had learned caution after the brawl, and he approached as quietly as he could on his numb, clumsy feet. Luckily it truly was Ike. The boy was swatting away ferns with a new stick he undoubtedly imagined was a mighty blade. 

Soren was struck by how relieved he was to see him again, and he silently observed the yellow tinge the bruises on his face had taken as they healed. Soren had no doubt he looked the same way, and the fact that they shared such a quality filled him with a strange warmth.

“Oh, hey!” Ike called when he saw him. “I was looking for you!”

Soren cocked his head. “Amon the fe-rns?”

Ike grinned. “Well, I never know where you are, silly-head.”

Soren noticed the boy wasn’t wearing his lunch box today, and he was a little disappointed. “You’re fah-far from t-town,” he observed. He did not know if it was his chilled limbs or his usual difficulty with the language that caused him to stutter, but he was embarrassed nonetheless. He surprised himself by wanting Ike not to think he was stupid or nervous.

Ike, however, didn’t seem to care. “Oh, I didn’t come from town today,” he said brightly. “Momma and Mist and me are having a picnic!”

Soren became tense when he realized there may be other people around. He wasn’t worried about Mist, who he knew from Ike’s stories was his four-year-old sister. But if Ike’s mother was nearby, she would undoubtedly put the pieces together and understand Soren was the one who had scratched that bully’s face. She may even blame him for her son’s own injuries. People tended to blame Soren for everything, and she had probable cause.

“What’s wrong?” Ike asked, noticing the change that had overcome him.

He just shook his head. He couldn’t explain. 

“Are you hungry again?” the boy asked. “You should have lunch with us!”

Soren’s widening eyes were his only response.

“Don’t worry,” Ike laughed, “My momma is the nicest in the whole world. She won’t mind at all.”

Soren shook his head.

“Please?” Ike surprised Soren by dropping the stick in order to intertwine his fingers beseechingly. “It would be fun! And you can meet my momma and Mist—though I don’t know why you’d want to meet Mist. She’s just a pain.”

Soren shook his head again.

Now Ike appeared sad. “Why don’t you want to?” He picked up his stick again and halfhearted whacked another fern. “Don’t you get lonely out here? My momma is really, _really_ nice, and I know she would wanna help you too. And then you won’t have to be hungry and dirty and all alone anymore.” Soren glanced down at his matted clothes and grit-encrusted skin. The dip in the stream had only moved the dirt around rather than washing it off. “Isn’t that better?” Ike finished earnestly.

Soren was struck by Ike’s words, just as he was by so much of what the boy had to say. He truly was unlike anyone he’d ever met. No one had ever cared if Soren was hungry or dirty, let alone cared if he felt lonely. In fact, he had never even thought about it himself.

The fact of the matter was that Soren did not know how long he would be able to survive by himself, especially with winter coming. He probably would have died already if not for Ike bringing him food regularly. If there was a chance his mother was anything like her son, Soren knew he should take the risk. He finally gave one slow nod.

Ike stared at him incredulously. “Are you changing your mind?”

Soren nodded again.

“You’re really gonna come on the picnic!”

He nodded a final time, and in his excitement, Ike seized his arm and began pulling him through the sea of ferns. “This is great! Momma’s gonna love you, I know it.”

Soren let Ike lead him to a meadow he had not even known was around here. In some places it grew tall and wild with leaning stalks of goldenrod and feathery fountain grass. Soren could already hear the bees buzzing over the heavy tufts of yellow flowers. But where the grass was shorter, chrysanthemums bloomed profusely, and this was where a woman was kneeling on a large red blanket. She had blue hair and eyes just like Ike’s, and her expression was serene as she set out the items she withdrew from her basket and cast occasional glances toward her daughter, who was picking the chrysanthemums into a bouquet. The little girl had the same sandy brown hair Soren had seen on her father’s head. Her tiny hands couldn’t hold all the flowers she endeavored to pluck, and they fell out of her grasp even as she attempted to collect more.

Her mother laughed and pulled the girl into a giggling embrace. “Mist, my darling, despite your determination, I’m afraid you won’t be able to pick the entire meadow!” She tickled her daughter, and the flowers fell all around her lap, spilling onto the edge of the blanket. Mist giggled uncontrollably.

Ike drew nearer, and the woman let her daughter roll away to give her son a disapproving frown. “Ike, I told you not-” Her reprimand caught in her throat when she saw Soren.

He hesitated, noting the surprise in her eyes, which turned to wariness when her gaze lingered on his forehead. But Ike grasped his hand and pulled him the rest of the way.

“Hello, child,” the woman said kindly, hiding whatever caution had filled her eyes a moment ago. When Soren did not reply, she turned to her son. “Ike, honey, who is this?”

“This is Soren,” Ike answered. “He’s my friend from the woods!”

This was clearly difficult for the woman to grasp. “Your friend from the woods is not imaginary?” she wondered aloud, and then seeming to realize something, she exclaimed, “Wait, you really have been wandering into the woods this whole time?”

Ike looked appropriately contrite. He dropped Soren’s hand into order the rub his fingers together. “Well, I did say…” he wiled.

“I thought it was one of your games!” the woman scolded, pushing her hair out of her face with the palm of her hand. “That’s very dangerous, Ike!”

“It wasn’t dangerous until stupid Heddy copied me,” he grumbled.

“There are _bears_ in the woods,” his mother continued. “You must promise to stop wondering away from town on your own!”

“But Soren lives in the woods, and he’s okay.”

The woman turned her full attention to him now, and her eyes searched his before continuing. “I am sorry for my rudeness, Soren. My name is Elena. I’m Ike’s mother. It’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, but Soren was too afraid to take it. People refrained from touching him whenever possible, and no adult had ever offered him a handshake before. Even though she had instigated the pleasantry, Soren could not stand to see her recoil from his touch, not with Ike watching. Eventually Elena dropped her hand.

“Why don’t you boys take a seat.” She patted the blanket where Mist had just been rolling around. Now that the little girl’s bout of giggles had subsided, she was standing behind her mother, staring at Soren shyly.

Ike sat cross-legged and pulled Soren down beside him. He then leaned curiously over the array of food, but his mother tapped his hand discouragingly before he could touch one of the pastries. “We’ll have lunch _after_ we sort this out,” she declared, and Ike pouted. “Now, Soren, are you parents around? I’d love to speak with them.”

He shook his head.

“Where are they then?” she continued pleasantly.

Soren realized he would have to speak. This was what he’d been practicing for after all. He took a steadying breath and began: “I don have parens.” He managed the full sentence, but the pronunciation and intonation were still off. He glanced down, embarrassed. 

But Elena misunderstood the reason for his sudden downcast eyes. “Oh, honey, it’s okay,” she crooned, reaching out.

Now it was Soren who recoiled, perhaps irrationally afraid of her touch.

Elena withdrew her hand, and her expression became more thoughtful. “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced. “You look hungry, so let’s eat first and talk later.”

“Yippee, lunch time!” Mist wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck in a morbid-looking hug.

Elena merely prised off her arms to kiss her hands and then twisted around to sweep her into her lap. “This is Ike’s friend Soren, Mist,” she said. “Won’t you say hello?”

“Hello,” Mist said obediently, albeit shyly. She waved and then scrambled out of her mother’s lap to take her place by the picnic basket. Elena leaned over and finished extracting the last of its contents.

When she was done, a feast was laid on the red blanket: half-wheels of two different cheeses, a jar of sugared cranberries, a canvas bag full of fresh persimmons, five links of sausage, a tin of salty fish, a long stick of yeasty-smelling bread, and of course the apple-filled pastries Ike had been eyeing since he sat down. Last to emerge was a large bottle of milk and a bladder of fresh water.

Ike and Mist dug right in, and Soren’s empty stomach urged him to do the same. Elena ate sparingly, and he knew her eyes were on him. “Not so fast,” she whispered, “I know you’re hungry, child, but you can make yourself sick eating too quickly. Here, drink more water. Slowly now.”

Soren was confused by her ministrations, but he obeyed her gentle orders.

For the first time in a long time, Soren was able to eat until his stomach was full, and just as Elena had cautioned, he did feel queasy. He sat on the blanket and wished he could go to sleep. But the woman was still watching him, and he knew she would want answers now. Mist was playing with the flowers at the edge of the blanket, and Ike was watching her, looking ready to dose off himself.

“Soren,” Elena began, but then catching herself she asked, “It is Soren right?”

He nodded.

Elena scooted closer and curled her legs so she was comfortable. “Did you have enough to eat?”

He nodded again. 

“That’s good.” She smiled. “Now, Soren, I need you to tell me what you’re doing here. Are you lost?”

Soren hesitated but then nodded. Elena waited for more, so Soren tried to explain. “I came from an- a villi-villa-village.” He gestured vaguely toward the east. “I was tryin t-to go toh- to Curi-Cri-Crimi-Crimea.” He dropped his head in his hands, embarrassed and just about ready to give up on saying anything ever again.

“Do you have family in Crimea?” Elena asked hopefully.

He shook his head.

“What about your village? Why did you leave?”

Soren shook his head again, but he knew that wouldn’t suffice. He prepared for the torture of failed communication once more. “My win mashgic mash-mas-masterr diud-died.”

Elena’s mouth made a small o-shape as if she suddenly understood something. “Do you know wind magic, Soren?”

He nodded and looped the satchel off his shoulder. Showing her the cover of the book, he was relieved when she didn’t try to take it from him.

Instead she asked, “Did a boy named Hedwin do that to your face?”

Soren nodded slowly. As much trouble as he may be, he had a feeling lying would make it worse.

Elena’s expression, however, was more sympathetic than accusing. “That little tyrant got you and Ike both,” she sighed. “Did you scratch him with wind magic?”

Soren nodded again, and to his surprise, she said, “You must be a good shot. That’s impressive at your age.” Then she shook her head. “However, you must know magic is not a weapon to be used lightly. I don’t know what your late master taught you, but those are dangerous spells you carry. Hedwin could have lost his eye. I know he is a bully, but he is a child still.”

Soren refused to nod contritely. Instead he frowned and said, “He was hur-ing Ike.”

Elena glanced over her shoulder at where her son was lazily piling flowers on Mist’s head. The little girl was already asleep. “Then I suppose I understand,” she said quietly. Turning back to Soren, she said, “And thank you. You’ve been a true friend to Ike, and he doesn’t have many of those.”

Soren said nothing. He did not know if he qualified as a ‘true friend,’ having not known Ike for very long. The basis of their relationship was that Soren bummed food from the boy in return for listening to his prattle and saying nothing. He did not think that constituted ‘true friendship,’ and yet he couldn’t help but like the sound of it. Soren had never had a friend before.

“I want to help you,” Elena continued, rubbing a hand against her chin as if in thought. “But I’m not sure how. What were you planning to do when you got to Crimea?”

Soren just shrugged. In truth, he had no real plan.

Elena’s mouth twitched in concern. “How long ago did your master die?”

Soren had not been counting the days since leaving Sileas’s village, so he shrugged again.

“Days?” she asked hopefully.

Soren shook his head.

“Weeks?” she asked in disbelief.

Soren hesitated but then shook his head again. He was not fond of guessing games, so he said simply, “May-be two mu-months.”

Elena’s eyes widened. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long,” she said, her voice heavy with gratitude and fear.

Soren didn’t know how to reply, so he said and did nothing.

“You mustn’t stay on your own anymore,” she continued firmly. “Why didn’t you come into the village? We could have helped you.”

Soren hesitated but then answered honestly: “B-p-peop-ul ha-e- hate me.” Hearing the words aloud hurt more than he’d expected. Despite the pain, he found himself saying it again, clearer this time: “People ha-e me.”

To Soren’s astonishment, tears budded in Elena’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Soren,” she said, raising a hand to wipe away the moisture. “I truly am sorry you’ve had to suffer so much.”

Soren could hardly believe what he was seeing. No one had every cried over him before. He didn’t even know this woman, and she certainly didn’t know him. He wondered if he was dreaming or imagining things. He wracked his brain to try to find some detail he was missing. Perhaps there was something obvious he had misunderstood or overlooked. But he could find no explanation. Finally, he had to admit this woman was just like Ike, or rather Ike as an he would be as adult. She wasn’t a naïve child, but she had the same open heart. Soren had never seen anything like it before.

“I know you’re afraid,” she finally said, “But I would very much like you to come back to town with me and Ike. I want to introduce you to my husband, Ike’s father. Together, we’ll find a way to help you. Could you…accept that from us?”

Soren did not answer right away, as he was busy weighing the risks. If this woman was as honest and well-intentioned as she seemed, going with her could be the right decision. It was unlikely the other villagers would be as accepting or forgiving of his attack on the Hedwin boy, but it was possible she could protect him from the others. Possible, but not certain. If her husband was like her, then the odds of safety were higher. Soren thought back to what he had heard Greil say in the woods the other day. He’d been calmer than the rest. He’d sounded reasonable: “That would be against the rules. We must not incite violence,” he had said. “He claims to have bested young Hedwin on his own… Perhaps he is lying to protect someone.” Recalling that voice, Soren dared to hope Ike’s father would be as patient and welcoming as his wife and son.

On the other hand, there was a possibility that Elena was not as honest or as well-intentioned as she seemed. Soren searched for explanations ranging from purely baiting him to force him to enter the town and pay for his crime, to the possibility that this town may provide subsidies to families who have more mouths to feed. Perhaps she wanted to pocket the money at his expense. However, he knew the likelihood of such a policy was extremely low. The chances that she intended to sell him as slave labor or use him for his skills as a wind mage were also minimal. In the end, he decided to air on the side of hope. “Okay,” he finally answered.


	5. CHAPTER 5: ELENA AND GREIL

It was eerie to enter the town he’d watched from afar these past two weeks, even with Ike excitedly expounding on the town’s good qualities as they walked. The people gave Soren confused, even worried glances, but a friendly nod from Elena averted any confrontation.

Eventually they arrived at Ike’s house, which sat near the crest of the town’s hill, right beside the steep slope leading into the fields. “It’s perfect for sledding in the winter!” Ike assured when he noticed Soren’s gaze. He then set about introducing Soren to every aspect of the house’s exterior.

There was a small barn in the back with room enough for a packhorse and its cart, two goats, three chickens, and a rooster (although Ike explained the rooster actually belonged to the neighbors and they often had to chase it away from the hens). There were flowers and herbs in the window boxes and vegetables growing in a small plot on either side of the front door. “These are Momma’s plants,” Ike explained, pointing to them, “We have to be careful not to step on them, or we’ll get in trouble.”

Elena shook her head. “Really, Ike, is it so hard to avoid them?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged petulantly.

“Come now, you can continue your tour inside.” She unlocked the door, and Ike was thrilled to do exactly as she asked.

The house had two floors, and on the first was a kitchen with a tall table, a sitting room with a large fireplace, a well-stocked storeroom, and a washroom with a basin big enough for a man the size of Greil to sit comfortably. Pleasant-smelling flowers hung from the ceiling, and the scents of various soaps oozed out of clay jars. Ike also let Soren peek into an additional room in the back of the house, which contained a cot and many cabinets. He explained that this was where Elena made her tinctures and met with patients.

Soren understood now that Elena was one of the town’s healers, but he still did not know what Greil did. There was a massive sword and axe crisscrossed over the mantle, and Soren knew well enough that weapons were not allowed in Gallia. He wondered how Greil got away with owning them. The man himself was not currently home, and Elena said he would return in the evening.

Ike led Soren upstairs where there were two bedrooms, one for Ike and his sister and one for his parents. Elena left the children alone in the house, saying she was going out to borrow a cot for Soren to sleep on. Now that the tour was over, Ike tried to enthuse Soren by introducing him to his toys: a wooden sword and tin shield, small soldier dolls, carved and painted horses, and so on. Soren had never had much interest in toys, but he listened while his mind struggled to catch up with all the changes.

When Elena returned, she set up the cot between Ike’s and Mist’s beds and laid out blankets and a pillow. “You are welcome to sleep here until we sort out what to do,” she promised. “Our home is yours as long as you need.”

Soren could not comprehend why she was doing this. She had not even consulted her husband to see if it was okay to let him stay the night, and here she was implying that he could stay longer. She didn’t know the first thing about him, and yet she was allowing him to sleep in the same room as her son and daughter. He could not say anything in the face of such inexplicable trust and generosity, and he found he had become completely mute again.

After drawing Soren a bath and giving him some of Ike’s old clothes, Elena left him to wash. Soren was happy to oblige, and determined to scrub away every last bit of the dirt and grime from the Gallian forest. When he finally emerged, his skin was red and blotchy, but he was cleaner than he had been in a very long time—possibly ever.

In the kitchen he found Ike and Mist washing and peeling vegetables for dinner. Elena asked Soren to join them. He played along with the family’s daily ritual, but not because he feared repercussions if he refused. 

When the sun had set and the easternmost fields were just losing their grasp on the warm daylight, Ike’s father shouldered into the cozy house. He appeared even bigger in the confines of the building than he had in the woods. And rather than staring down at him from above, Soren now found himself looking up at the man.

He had broad shoulders, a hooked nose, and a scar across his temple. His eyebrows were thick and angry-looking, and yet his eyes were tender when he gazed at his family. “I hear we have a visitor,” was the first thing he said. He wasn’t dressed as a farmer, and Soren wondered what he’d been doing all day.

Elena met him at the door, where they pecked each other on the cheek. “Yes, we do,” she answered. “It was quite a surprise to find out Ike’s imaginary friend isn’t quite so imaginary after all.”

Greil’s eyes had already settled on Soren, and he was examining him with a guarded expression. Soren stood from where he’d been sitting with Ike on the rug in front of the fireplace. He stepped forward as if presenting himself for Greil’s assessment.

“Greil, darling, this is Soren,” Elena introduced them. “Soren, this is Ike’s father, Greil.”

The man stepped forward and extended his hand. Although Soren had rejected Elena’s handshake in the meadow, he did not think Greil was the kind of person with whom you could refuse such things. So he acquiesced to grasp it and let Greil jerk it in a firm shake.

When he let his hand drop, Soren could hardly believe he had not shown any disgust at having touched him. He was either immune to the usual revulsion people felt around Soren or good at hiding his feelings.

The five of them ate dinner together, and then, when the children were washing and drying the dishes, Ike’s parents retreated to their own room to talk privately. Soren had no doubt he was the topic of discussion, and as he wiped dry the plates Ike passed him, he imagined what they could be saying.

They returned before long, and Greil sent Ike and Mist to their room even though the dishes were not yet done. Ike was reluctant to leave, and he gave Soren a worried look. Soren did not understand why it fell to him to settle Ike’s feelings, but he found himself giving the boy a reassuring nod. Ike seemed satisfied and did as his father had ordered.

Then Greil and Elena sat back down at the kitchen table and gestured for Soren to sit as well. “Let’s talk for a bit,” Elena invited him. The table and chairs were tall, and his feet didn’t touch the floor.

“Elena told me what you told her,” Greil began, leaning on his arm so that he could look at Soren face-on. “Anything you want to add, now’s the time.”

Soren did not know what he wanted him to say, so he just shook his head.

“That’s fine,” Greil grunted. “Now, there’s something there on your forehead. Would you mind showing it to me?” Greil was clearly not as naturally gentle as his wife, but he appeared to making a concerted effort to speak nicely. Once again, it was not something Soren understood.

He nervously held the remnants of his bangs aside. They had nearly grown out, and he was not surprised they were no longer keeping the mark concealed. When Greil nodded, Soren lowered his hand. 

“You’re right,” he said to his wife.

“It doesn’t change anything,” she replied briskly.

“Of course not.” He shook his head and returned his gaze to Soren. “Where are you from, lad?”

“A vil-lage,” Soren managed to say, glancing at Elena. He had already told her this.

“Here in Gallia?” Greil asked.

Soren nodded.

“And have you always lived in that village?”

Soren shook his head, and when Greil seemed to be waiting for elaboration, he stuttered, “D-Dee-Day- Daein.” 

The couple exchanged a quick, urgent glance that Soren could not make heads or tails of. “You’re from Daein?” Elena repeated.

Soren nodded.

After another glance, Greil spoke again. “That’s a long way from here,” he said, but Soren had a feeling that was not what had been communicated between their eyes. “Is there anyone waiting for you back in Daein?”

Soren shook his head adamantly.

“And the village where your master died… Did you leave because they wouldn’t let you stay?” His voice was sympathetic, and Soren realized this couple was not ignorant about the way they were supposed to be treating him. They knew they were not supposed to trust him, to show him kindness or hospitality, and yet they were doing it anyway.

When the shock of this fact faded away, Soren finally nodded. It was easier than trying to explain that he’d safely assumed he would have been chased away.

Greil gave a small nod as if to say he expected as much. “What were you planning to do in Crimea?” he asked next.

Soren had an answer prepared now, although he knew it was weak. “Work,” he managed to say.

“How old are you?” He raised one massive eyebrow.

“Sa-se-seven,” Soren answered. Although he didn’t know his exact birthday, he expected to be eight this winter.

“Ike is six,” Elena said with a small, sad smile. “I wouldn’t guess by looking at the two of you that you were the older.”

Soren just looked at the dirty table. He had his fists in his lap, and he didn’t know what to say or do to earn these people’s help. Right now, Elena seemed to pity him, and he hoped that would work in his favor no matter how uncomfortable it was to bear.

“Seven-year-old children shouldn’t have to work,” Greil declared as if having just deciding this fact.

“Agreed,” Elena said, clasping her hands on the tabletop.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Soren.” Greil leaned down the table before continuing. “Elena and I are planning to move our little family to Crimea in the spring. If you stay with us until then, we can take you with us and get you settled. I’m not talking about work—I mean a home. Somewhere you can be educated and raised right. How does that sound?”

Soren could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he knew that if this offer was real, he would be a fool to pass it up, no matter the risk. He nodded, adding firmly, “Yes.”

Greil bobbed his head as if business had just been concluded, but Elena was beaming. “Well, Ike will be glad to have you around!” she laughed. “Why don’t you go tell him the good news?” She gestured to the stairs.

Soren understood he was being dismissed, although he’d never been sent away so subtly before. Usually a harsh word or a flying object would have done the trick. He did not think Elena or Greil would use such tactics, but he scampered away just in case.

However, he did not have to climb the stairs to find Ike, because the boy was sitting on the steps with his finger to his lips. Soren realized the boy had been listening the entire time and decided it was a smart decision. He stepped in place on the stairs several times so it sounded like he made it to the top. Then he crouched down next to Ike and listened.

“Are you sure about this?” Elena said after a while. The laughter had left her voice. “It could be a trap.”

“I’m sure,” Greil replied resolutely.

“He said he’s from Daein. Do you think that could just be a coincidence?”

“Why not?” the man grunted. “Stranger things have happened.”

Elena sighed, and after a long pause, she said in a soft voice: “He’s not the one you trained, you know. He’s not a replacement. He’s not a redo. He’s just a little boy.”

“I know.”

“Good...” There was another long pause, and this time Elena asked. “Do you really think we can find a place that will take him?”

Greil did not answer immediately. “Not many places would. But there has to be someone, somewhere. I’ll use my connections.”

“Your connections, Greil?” Elena repeated incredulously. “We can’t be drawing attention to ourselves.”

“I know, darling, but neither of us are particularly good at that when it comes to doing the right thing.” This was followed by the sound of a kiss, and Ike pulled a disgusted face.

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave that boy out in the woods,” Elena conceded. “And besides, Ike is very fond of him.”

“This could be good for Ike,” Greil agreed. The sound of chair legs scratching against the floor and dishes clinking showed that the conversation was over. On unspoken agreement, Soren and Ike used the sound to creep up the stairs as silently as they could.

Ike was ecstatic that Soren would be staying, and he bounced around the room telling Mist everything he’d heard while the girl whined for him to stop. “We’re moving again!” he squealed, “We’re moving, we’re moving!” Soren was confused by his use of ‘again.’ He wondered where the family had lived previously and why they’d come to a Gallian village of all places.

When he heard footsteps on the stairs, Soren signaled Ike, and the boy fell still and silent. Greil and Elena pushed open the door a moment later. With arms around each other’s waists, they filled the doorframe.

“Ike, Mist,” Elena said, “Why don’t you pick a story for me to read tonight.”

Mist held up a book from her bedside table with big, beseeching eyes, but Ike pulled a face, saying, “Not that one!” He dashed over to a little bookshelf, placing his hand on his chin in a posture of serious contemplation.

Meanwhile, Greil addressed Soren: “I’d like to have another word with you alone.”

Soren had not touched any of the furniture since he and Ike had entered this room. In fact, he was still standing in the corner near the door. So he nodded and followed Greil back down the stairs without Ike noticing.

Rather than returning to the kitchen table, Greil sat himself down in the big armchair by the fireplace. Either he or Elena must have lit it while the children were upstairs, because the logs were just beginning to smolder. “Take a seat,” he said.

Soren sat in one of the smaller chairs and assessed the room again. It really was a well-furnished and well-stocked house. Soren wondered if Ike’s family was rich, and if so, how anyone could be so well-off in a remote village like this.

Greil rubbed the bristly shadow on his jaw while he appraised. “Tell me, Soren,” he began, “Why come to Gallia to become a wind mage?”

Soren hated this endless interrogation, but even worse was the fact that, although he could think coherently and considered himself quite intelligent for his age, he could hardly communicate a single sentence to these people. Taking a deep breath, he tried again: “He foun me. He t-took me he-e her-here.”

Greil nodded. “How did he die?”

“Sick,” Soren answered. 

“You’re a bit young to be anyone’s apprentice,” he observed. “Why did he wish to teach you?”

Soren hesitated. He knew the answer but was afraid to say it aloud. However, if Greil was truly going to help him, it was probably best he knew everything. “Su-Spiri-Spirit Sh-Charmer,” he managed. It was one of the words he’d practiced, and yet he stumbled now that he needed it.

Greil tilted his chin down. “And are you one?”

Soren shook his head, averting his eyes to the rug. His heart started beating faster as he recalled Sileas’s drunken tirade. Soren still did not understand what it meant, but he knew that being a Spirit Charmer would have been preferable to not being one.

“I understand.” Greil was silent for long time as he seemed to assemble his thoughts. “Lad,” he finally began, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Soren. First, I’ll just say this: they’re all wrong. The small-minded people out there who fear anything they don’t understand, anything that’s different. They’re wrong. Don’t forget that.”

He stopped to let Soren respond, so he gave a tiny nod. He didn’t know why Greil was telling him this, or if Greil was speaking truthfully, but he clung to the man’s every word.

“But that doesn’t mean they’re about to change,” Greil sighed. “You’re going to have to buck up and deal with it.”

Soren resented the implication that he’d been weak up until this moment. He didn’t know why he should have to ‘buck up’, but he didn’t argue.

“You can’t try to hide,” Greil continued. “Hiding makes you look guilty, right?”

Soren supposed that was true, although he did not know what he would be guilty of, other than scratching that boy’s face.

“Most people don’t know much about mages or magic, so that’ll work in your favor,” Greil explained. “If somebody asks about your Brand, you just say it’s the Spirit’s Protection, got it? You’ll have to pretend to be a Spirit Charmer. But only if someone asks, got it?”

Greil’s voice had become quite serious, and Soren felt a shiver run down his spine. He gave another small nod to show he understood.

“Don’t force your hair to cover your face—that looks like you’re trying to hide it. Bring your wind tome with you everywhere you go, but you mustn’t use it unless there’s absolutely no other choice, understand? People must see you’re a mage in training, but you mustn’t give them a reason to think you’ll hurt them. No matter what bullies like that kid Hedwin might say or do, you’ve got to keep a cool head. Do not give them anything to use against you. Elena and I can’t protect you if our neighbors think you’re dangerous. Do you understand?”

Soren nodded.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” Soren said aloud. “I und-understan.”

Greil jerked his head and continued: “You must follow the laws of the town. You mustn’t take what is not yours or go where you do not have permission. You are free to come and go from our house as you please, but you must listen and obey Elena and me. Can you do that? Can you trust us?”

“Yes,” Soren said again.

“Good.” Greil adjusted his position and seemed more relaxed. “Now, go off to bed. You must be tired.”

“Yes,” was all Soren could say. He supposed he should say thank you, but he wasn’t ready for those words. They stuck thick in his throat, and his mind rebelled against gratitude, telling him this could still be a trick.

He came upstairs to find Elena putting a book of fairytales away and kissing Mist and Ike on the tops of their heads. If this was a trap, it was an elaborate one. Soren crawled into his own cot and could hardly believe the warmth and softness of the blankets. Despite his nervousness, his doubts, his confusion, and his swirling thoughts, he fell into a dead sleep after only a few moments.

The next week was a peculiar adjustment period. He was fed regularly and had a place to sleep. His speech was improving the more he was forced to use it, and he was making himself useful by joining Ike and Mist in their chores. But he could not linger around Ike’s house all day, and leaving inevitably meant interacting with the other villagers.

For the most part, when a neighbor first saw Soren walking alongside Ike, they addressed him kindly. They knelt or put their hands on their knees and cooed: “And who is this young man?” or “Who is your friend, Ikey?” But they did not extend their hands in greeting like Greil and Elena had. Soren always let Ike introduce him, saying: “This is Soren! He’s come to live with us!” Then the villagers would smile and say in surprise. “Looks like little Ike is finally coming out of his shell!” If Elena was nearby, she would laugh and say jokingly, “Soren is a good influence on him.”

Others, however, were more wary. They either ignored Soren or gave him suspicious glances. Sometimes they were hesitant or a little afraid. These villagers would look to Greil or Elena for explanation and assurance, and either one could provide that assurance with a steady gaze, a slight nod, or a coercive smile. Soren could hardly believe the difference a single person vouching for him could make, let alone two.

He marveled at the influence Greil and Elena had over their neighbors. In his experience, it was people’s first instinct to hate him and their default behavior to be cruel. But Greil and Elena could disrupt these tendencies merely with their presence, their eyes, the barest movements of their face and bodies. They were like puppet masters. A slight twist of the wrist, the barest cutting motion with straight fingers, and the neighbor’s mouth snapped shut. Whatever they were about to ask or say died on their tongue. Soren noticed this covert communication, but he didn’t care. He was grateful for it.

After a few days, he discovered that the couple’s influence was derived from the value they provided the town. Although they had only moved here four years ago, they’d quickly become part of the fabric of the community. Elena was the village’s best healer, using a combination of herbal medicine, surgical techniques, and a Heal staff for more serious injuries. 

Greil, on the other hand, helped manage the finances of most of the village’s residents—especially the farmers who sold their crops to merchants in faraway cities and purchased their supplies from trading caravans. In short, Greil ensured no one was being swindled. He spent many evenings in front of the fireplace with papers spread over his lap and the table beside him. Sometimes a neighbor sat with him, drinking black coffee or brandy while they discussed business. Ike hated these meetings because it meant he had to play quietly in his room, but Soren often crept down the stairs to listen. The behavior of numbers, risks and trade-offs, and costs and gains all made sense to him, and it was clear Greil was a master of these subjects.

Despite their influence, Greil and Elena held little sway over the town’s children—including Hedwin’s gang. Due to the small number of children at all, the adults forced them to play together. At first Soren feared every meeting with Hedwin, but soon it became clear he’d managed to scare the preteen enough to dissuade him from pummeling either Ike or Soren again.

Soren made no friends here, besides Ike. But neither did he feel any desire to make more friends. Other than some light teasing and pushing, the other children left Soren alone, and that was how he preferred it.

Ike, on the other hand, seemed to forgive Hedwin immediately and wish to befriend him. Ike insisted on playing with anyone and everyone—even when the other kids had no interest in playing with him, which was often the case. The others called Ike stupid and annoying, but Soren didn’t see it that way. Ike could be oblivious or naïve, but it was because he was innocent. He could be a bit tiring, but that was merely due to his boundless energy. The others said he lived in a dream world, but that was because he had such a strong imagination. They said he didn’t know how to mind his own business, but that was because Ike cared about everyone. Soren found it strangely admirable.

Watching his friend play with the other kids, Soren came to think of Ike as the opposite of himself in every way. And if Soren was indeed bad, that must mean Ike was pure good. The brave, bright-eyed boy became the measuring stick with which Soren judged the rest of the world. The most important thing Soren learned from him was that people could be better. He realized that people like Galina and Sileas were pathetic. Most people were exactly that—pathetic, inane, self-serving, simple-minded, and wrapped in their own meaningless dramas. Ike, on the other hand, had an open mind, an expansive heart, a willingness to seek out passion, and the ability to see and understand it in others. Where everyone else saw an excitable seven-year old boy, Soren saw a hero.

Eventually life with Ike’s family became routine, and even the townspeople grew accustomed to Soren’s presence. His time was split between chores, playing with Ike (which included plenty of sledding once the snows came), and language lessons. All four family members helped him with the pronunciation of words he struggled with—even Mist who adamantly forced him repeat the names of her dolls until he could say them all perfectly. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she could hardly say them herself.

Learning to speak the common tongue took months. It was a long, mundane task, and often frustratingly difficult. When she realized he wanted to learn, Elena had taken on the role of teacher, and despite her gentleness, she could be incredibly strict. She had him recite increasingly complicated words, phrases, and tongue-twisters until he could pronounce them smoothly. But Soren was no stranger to hard work, and he applied himself to these tasks as if he had Sileas’s knotted rope at his back.

When the snows began to melt, Elena eventually called an end to his lessons, saying, “Well, you sound like a book now. I suppose my task is done.” This Soren could accept; he’d always been fond of the written word.

Spring came, and Elena and Greil prepared to leave, although they tried their best to keep this a secret from their neighbors. A week before they were scheduled to depart, they admitted the truth, and the backlash was fierce. The townspeople were loath to lose their best healer and accountant, and they feared this would inspire others to leave. They feared their village would become like the other ghost towns.

But they could not stop Greil and Elena from going. To Soren’s surprise, the family sold or gave away most of their possessions including most of their books. They filled their cart, two large packs on Greil and Elena’s backs, and even a small rucksack for Ike and a fabric bag for Mist. Soren insisted on having his own pack and carried his clothes and bedding.

Greil’s axe and sword came off of the wall, and to Soren’s surprise, he wore the sword on his belt and tucked the axe away in the cart. Elena fretted over which plates to bring and packed them among the clothes so they wouldn’t crack. She brought her Heal staff, using it as a walking stick, but left her herbs and medicines behind. They stocked up on travelling food, which was mostly the same preserved foodstuffs they’d been eating all winter. They sold their goats and kept only one chicken. All the furniture, including Greil’s armchair, was left behind.

Eventually it was time to leave. Since the town was still sore about their departure, only a few neighbors came to wave them off. It was a halfhearted affair. By the time they entered the woods beyond the fields, Mist was already whining about her legs being tired and her bag being too heavy, so Elena lifted her up to sit on the front of the cart. Ike, on the other hand, was skipping ahead, and Soren was sure he would have run all the way to Crimea if he could.

Soren couldn’t deny he was excited too. Although Greil and Elena had provided a place of refuge these past few months, Gallia would always be the home of subhumans. It would always be the place where Soren had been invisible to those dreaded beasts. The memory still caused him to break into a cold sweat, and he imagined putting as much distance between himself and this place would eventually make that feeling go away.

He was eager for the prospects of security and education as well—those lovely promises Greil had made. Soren still didn’t know if Greil could deliver on those promises, but he would hold out hope for now. They were on the road to Crimea, and that had to mean something.

At night they camped in the woods, and Greil slept with his sword at his side. Soren knew after by now that subhumans were not as dangerous as they were rumored to be, and yet he was grateful for the protection.

On the second night, however, Soren woke to find both Greil and his sword gone. Elena was sleeping with both Ike and Mist curled up between her and the fire, but Greil’s sleeping mat was empty. Soren waited, straining his eyes and ears, to see if perhaps Greil had just wandered off to pee.

It was then he heard the voices. Soren turned over to hear them better, but he didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping so he pretended to be sleeping.

“So you really are leaving Gallia?” someone asked, and it was not Greil’s voice.

“As you can see,” was Greil’s answer.

“Without telling the king?”

“I may owe Caineghis a lot, but I’m not on his payroll anymore. I don’t have to tell him when I leave the country.”

“Perhaps not, but as a friend… He could help you if you’re in trouble.”

“There’s no trouble here,” Greil answered, his voice low. “Unless you start some by trying to stop me leaving.”

“Of course not, Greil… I wouldn’t do that. I’m just trying to understand.”

“There are better prospects in Crimea, and my kids need friends their age to grow up with.”

“Is that truly the reason?”

“It is.”

“Well, if I can’t loosen your tongue…” Whoever the man was, he sighed heavily. “We wish you the very best.”

“You too, my friend.”

A few moments later, Greil materialized in the glow of the dwindling fire. In the trees behind him, Soren saw a lithe creature with a long tail slink away. To Soren’s astonishment, he realized his conversation partner had been a subhuman, and he didn’t know which feeling was stronger—his surprise that they’d spoken so amicably or his envy that the subhuman had spoken to Greil at all.

Greil settled by the fire and was soon snoring. Soren tried to fall back asleep, but his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Greil and Elena. His unlikely saviors were both a mystery to him.

When they crossed into Crimea, Greil consulted with the Royal Knights at the border, much as Sileas had done years ago. But unlike Sileas, Greil held no animosity toward the knights. He treated them with familiarity and respect, and the family spent the night in the outpost’s guest beds.

After that, it was a week’s travel to the rural town where Greil had a lead on an open house. As they neared it, Soren wondered why Greil had not yet discussed where he would be dropping him off. In fact, there had been very little discussion of Soren’s place in the family’s relocation, and he couldn’t help but feel like a piece of refuse being swept along by accident.

“Where will I go when you reach your new home?” he worked up the courage to ask Greil one day. Elena was walking ahead, holding hands with Ike and Mist, who were skipping on either side.

Greil looked momentarily surprised and perhaps a little uncomfortable by the question. “Oh, I thought Elena had talked to you about that.”

Soren shook his head, starting to feel anxious.

“There’s no need to worry, lad,” the man consoled, touching Soren’s shoulder in a familiar way that still felt strange to him. “Things will just take longer than we expected. But you’re welcome to keep staying with us as long as you need.”

“How long will that be?” Soren asked. He refused to keep blindly following this family now that he’d finally worked up the courage to ask about Greil’s plan.

“I’m not sure.” He heaved his massive shoulders. “I know people here in Crimea who should be able to search around and find a good place for you. But due to certain circumstances, I can’t reach out to them right now. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Soren released a long, controlled breath. He was perfectly capable of being patient, but he didn’t want to burden Ike’s family any longer. “There must be orphanages somewhere, or perhaps a temple will take me in as a novice.” When Greil did not jump at either of these ideas, Soren added, “Crimea has workhouses. Just point me toward the nearest city.”

He frowned. “You’re too young to work, lad.”

“I’m sure I could find an employer who doesn’t mind, as long as I work cheaply.”

Greil glanced at him. “Don’t be a smart aleck,” he scolded, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“You have done too much for me already,” was Soren’s reply.

“If you’re dead-set on earning your keep, Elena and I will find you something to do when we get to town.”

“Why do that for me?” he asked, shaking his head.

“The truth is, orphanages might reject you out of fear that you’ll corrupt the other kids. Not to mention, you’re not very adoptable, and you won’t have many prospects getting any sort of useful apprenticeship or position in a noble’s house.”

It hurt to hear the assessment aloud, but Soren knew it was all true. This was the kind of thing Greil wouldn’t say if Elena was in earshot, but when left to his own devices, Greil had a very frank nature.

After giving Soren a couple moments for that to sink in, he continued: “A temple might work, but I didn’t take you for religious.” He glanced down at Soren with an eyebrow raised.

Soren just shook his head.

“Well, a word of caution—men of faith come in two types: the ones who’ll enshrine you and the ones who want to burn you at the stake. You’ve got to know how to read them. You’ve got to anticipate what they’re looking for.”

“Noted,” Soren replied, even though he didn’t quite understand what Greil was trying to say. After a moment he added, “But that doesn’t really answer my question.”

“You’re a good kid who’s had a hard time, and you’re Ike’s friend,” Greil said, setting his eyes on where his son was pulling on his wife’s arm. “I know you don’t think much of charity, but you just have to trust that’s more than enough of a reason.”

It was exactly the answer he expected from Greil. Soren didn’t reply.

They continued walking in silence, and Soren wondered what life would be like in the new town. He dared wonder if he would be able to stay with Ike forever. Even though he didn’t want to be a burden, he had to admit it was an enticing idea.

They arrived in the days of spring when the sun shone hot, melting away any last vestige of ice and snow. The landscape seemed to grow greener by the hour, and perhaps because of this, Soren came to think of the town as a sunny place. There was a glow to the people as well as the land. It lingered in the sunburst grasses, glistened in puddles in the freshly planted fields, and reflected off the glass wind chimes hanging outside each door. It shone in the red faces of the hardworking villagers and the red breasts of the birds roosting in the rafters of every house, shop, and barn.

Greil unhitched the horse and rode it downtown to put a first payment on his family’s new home. Every house in town and every acre of the surrounding fields belonged to a noble family named Edgars, and it was to these nobles that Greil would now have to pay his dues. In this way, living in Crimea promised to be different than Gallia. In Gallia, the beast-men had technically owned the land under the people’s feet, but subhumans didn’t have tax collectors.

While Greil conducted this important task, Elena wasted no time opening up the house and unloading the cart. This building was more modest than their former home. The furnishings were sparse and aged, but when Greil returned, he promised to craft his own to replace them. The fireplace was less grand, but Elena and Greil hefted his battleax over the mantle just the same. The stairs were narrower and steeper, but they led to three rooms instead of two. Ike and Mist were each given their own, and it was decided Soren would stay with Ike. The rooms themselves were quite small, but no one remarked on that fact.

The kitchen table was lower to the ground, and none of the chairs matched one another. The kitchen itself was smaller, but the cellar was larger, with plenty of space to store food. Elena threw open the windows, swept away the cobwebs, and exalted every new feature she discovered. Ike and Mist did not seem to mind that this house lacked the bookshelves and barn they’d grown used to. They mirrored their mother’s excitement and did everything she asked to help unload the cart and purchase the items they needed. Ike proudly carried a dead goose over his head all the way from the butcher shop for their celebratory dinner.

Soren did as he was instructed and helped where he was needed, but it was times like these that he felt the most like an outsider. Surrounded by the family’s antics, their peals of laughter, their revelry of movement, Soren felt deep in his heart that he would never be like them. He did not enjoy the things they enjoyed; he did not feel things the way they felt them. He was forever disconnected, looking in from the outside.

Greil and Elena seemed to respect this. They didn’t try to force him to feel or behave the way they did. When Elena grasped her children’s hands and skipped sideways around their new kitchen, she did not try to take Soren’s hand too. She must have known he wasn’t a child who skipped or sang.

Although this was still a small town, it was larger than the Gallian village where Soren had spent the last six months and far larger than Sileas’s village. There was a bounty of fresh-faced children for Ike and Mist to play with, and Soren was forced to associate with them as well, if for no other reason than the fact they attended school together.

Classes were held in a schoolhouse in the town’s eastern district, and they were taught conjointly by the town’s junior priest and an old soldier stationed nearby. All age groups learned together, and no one was forced to attend except those with strict parents. Although Soren could not claim to have those, he still went every day.

He already knew a good deal of the material, in areas ranging from simple arithmetic to Crimean history. He needed no tutelage in penmanship, and he could read more quickly than the other children. But there was always a chance he could learn something new if it he attended, so Soren took that chance.

Ike attended more often than not, because Elena was one of those strict parents who demanded her children be educated. However, if Ike never returned to the classroom after lunch, the teacher was not about report it to Elena. As for Soren, he swore to keep Ike’s secrets.

He did not think Ike was missing much anyway. In his opinion, Elena’s private lessons were far more useful than anything the stuffy priest or grizzled soldier had to say. From Elena Soren learned how to grow plants, how to cook basic meals, how to sew rips and tears in different fabrics, and how to clean up various types of messes (he had never realized there were so many). She taught him the exchange rates between goods and how to bargain for a better price. She showed him how candles, paper, butter, ink, and dye were made, bringing Soren and her children to observe experts when she did not possess the skill herself. Trying to retain all this information tested the limits of Soren’s mind. Sileas had drilled him in mathematics, history, battle strategy, and other such topics. But this was entirely different.

Ike and Mist, on the other hand, treated the lessons more like a game than education. When baking in the kitchen, they had fun stirring the batter as fast as they could without spilling, whereas Soren was more interested in learning what ingredients went into the bowl, how they worked together, and how they would fail if added in the wrong order or quantity or manipulated the wrong way.

When not in the classroom or under Elena’s watchful eye, Soren learned lessons no one thought to teach him, and it was always with Ike that these discoveries were made. The two boys escaped together, sometimes travelling as far as they could in a day and still arrive home before dinner. They watched baby birds jump out of nests, witnessed water evaporating from a stationary cup, catalogued the slow, grotesque transformation of caterpillars into butterflies, poked a snake as it digested a fat frog, and observed livestock fornicating in the fields with rapt curiosity.

Two of Ike’s favorite things to do were spy on soldiers at the nearby outpost and watch the local militia training with weapons, which they did once a month. Greil had rejected an offer to join the Crimean Army in Lord Edgars’ name, but he’d joined the local militia just as most able-bodied men did. He participated in basic exercises and listened to lectures on weaponry each month, although Soren suspected he did not need the training.

Ike, however, lived for these days. He always stood with his feet hooked over the bottom rung of the fence and cupped his mouth to cheer his father on. He memorized everything the training officer said and begged Greil to teach him how to wield a sword. Greil’s answer was always ‘not yet’ or ‘someday’, but that didn’t stop Ike from pretending to play with sticks as swords, acting out dramas of imagined battles, and hounding every soldier who passed through town with questions about what he called ‘the life of a true warrior’.

Soren had no interest in these matters. He wanted to be a mage, not a common soldier or sell-sword. But he played along for Ike’s sake. His friend always gave him strong roles in their imaginary productions, offering him various powerful stick-weapons each time they played. Sometimes they were magical swords, axes, bows, and spears with the power to turn their victims into frogs, cause their victims to disintegrate on impact, or change their victims to ‘good’. Soren wished he could show Ike a wind spell, to demonstrate what real magic looked like, but he obeyed Greil’s mandate and resisted these urges.

Soren did not mind Ike’s games, but he was embarrassed when forced to play with other children. He knew the others only tolerated him for Ike’s sake. Everyone in town treated Soren well enough, thanks to Greil and Elena, but there were whispers. And the children picked up on those whispers.

When one of the town bullies had first called Soren a freak and grabbed his hair, Ike had punched him in the face hard enough to knock the bigger kid onto his butt. On the ground, Ike had continued to hit him until Soren and the other kids managed to pull him off. It was similar to the episode with Hedwin, except this time Ike had fought with even more ferocity.

After that, the bullies left Soren alone. Or rather, they never bothered him if Ike was around, and if someone gave Soren trouble when he was elsewhere, he never told Ike about it. Ike had a strange power to befriend everyone, even the bullies, and Soren didn’t want to get in the way of that.

Ike’s popularity was apparently astounding to Greil and Elena, who often remarked that the move to Crimea must have been a good decision. “He had such a hard time making friends before,” Elena lamented. “I’m so glad he’s doing better now.” Greil once suggested that Soren had been a good influence on Ike, citing the fact that his presence gave them both a reason to interact with the other children. But Soren did not see how that could be true—Ike had been outgoing since they’d first met in the Gallian woods.

When not attending lessons in the schoolhouse, absorbing Elena’s diverse tutelage, or going on adventures (imaginary or otherwise) with Ike, Soren’s time was devoted to his new job. On their way here, Greil had promised he would help Soren find work, but it took another few weeks to convince Elena, who insisted Soren’s only ‘job’ was to learn and play.

Soren argued persistently that he wished to earn money he could use to buy his own clothes and pay Greil and Elena some form of room and board.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elena would say, “We are glad to share what we have with you.” But eventually Greil sided with Soren saying, “The lad knows how the world works. Don’t pretend that you don’t.” The argument was over, and Elena spoke with her new friends in town to find Soren a position.

The job was at the tannery at the southern edge of town. The family who’d owned and run the tanning shack for generations had withered away to almost nothing, but there were still a wealth of hunters and trappers who brought their hides here for curing before artisans made them into goods. The dwindling family needed all the help they could get, so they gave Soren a few coins every week to withstand the stench and do such tasks as collecting dung from the fields, stirring putrid mixtures, or flipping the hides with a long stick. Soren got used to the smell, and the work was not all that hard.

He learned by keeping his ears open that the reason he’d been stuck with this job was that most other work in town involved food or animals. The townspeople were reluctant to have Soren interfere with either of those things, for fear he would somehow corrupt or sicken whatever he had prolonged contact with. In contrast, the tannery was already a place of corruption and sickness.

The coins he did not give Greil, Soren saved up to buy proper clothes. Until now, Elena had been giving Soren Ike’s hand-me-downs. However, Ike of last year had apparently been crammed into brightly dyed shirts and overalls with extra pockets sewn in, and Soren detested these outfits. When he finally had enough money (an entire year of his savings) he purchased a black tunic, light grey trousers, and a dark grey cloak for winter. He made sure the clothes were roomy so he could grow into them.

Finally purchasing these clothes felt like a victory. But they were also a reminder that a whole year had passed with little progress, and that felt like a defeat. He could never truly be a part of Ike’s family, but Greil had made no headway in finding Soren a permanent home. For now, Soren felt he was just biding his time, and that was frustrating no matter how he filled his days with tasks, games, and discoveries.


	6. CHAPTER 6: MASSACRE

Soren took his time walking back from the tannery. He’d washed his hands the best he could, but the foul odor stuck to his clothes. He refused to wear his new outfit to work, for fear of ruining it, so he was one again clad in Ike’s overalls.

Setting one foot in front of the other, he considered what would be awaiting him at the house: Mist doing something cute or Ike accomplishing something difficult, Greil’s bearhugs and Elena’s lullabies, a special dinner or perhaps a guest visiting for the evening, content smiles and laughter at nothing. Usually these things didn’t bother Soren, but today the thought of them slowed his steps to a crawl. 

Today he had overheard something he was not supposed to, something he could not ignore or forget. A client had confronted the old tanner about his newest employee, without realizing the boy was tending the vats in the next room or that the door was ajar.

“Why?” had been the question. “Why let a thing like that under your roof? Why invite calamity into your place of business? Why offend Ashera when you need her grace now more than ever?”

Hearing things said behind his back was worse than having them said to his face. At least when Soren was insulted directly, he could imagine the speaker was exaggerating or lying. But the fur trader’s only motivation had been concern for his colleague.

At times like these, Soren recalled what Greil had said. _People are ignorant_ , he told himself. _People are narrow-minded. People are superstitious._ It had become a kind of mantra: _They are ignorant._ _They are narrow-minded. They are superstitious. They are all fools._ But today the mantra failed him, because Soren had heard once again the word Sileas had used in the cellar: Branded.

“You know what he is, right?” the trader had asked gently. “The boy’s a Branded. You can see it plain as day. Why take such a risk just for a few hours’ labor?”

“You said it yourself,” the old tanner had answered. “It’s just a few hours a week, and anyway, Greil and Elena are good people. They wouldn’t steer me wrong.”

Soren could not convince himself that these people were ignorant, when they knew things he did not. They knew what a ‘Branded’ was. They knew why Soren was hated, even though no one, not even Greil or Elena, had ever been honest with him about it.

He was walking home slowly, because he needed time to muster his courage. The only reason he didn’t know what ‘Branded’ meant was that he’d never asked. He could not truly blame Greil and Elena for not telling him, because honestly, he hadn’t wanted to know.

But he had lived with Ike’s family for twenty-one months, he had moved to Crimea with them, and there was little to no indication that Greil was going to uphold his promise of helping Soren make a life of his own. No one was going to act unless he forced them to act, and no one was going to answer his questions unless he asked them.

Finally he reached the house and closed the door gently behind him. “Something wrong, Soren?” Ike asked, looking up from where he was playing with his wooden knight and horse figurines. He seemed to sense Soren’s trepidation.

“I’m fine,” he answered and wished it were true.

Elena was sewing at the kitchen table, and Mist was napping by an open window, the summer breeze wafting her hair and bringing in the scent of grain from the storehouses down the road. Ike put his toys down and came to meet Soren. The boy had a greenish paste on his cheeks and nose, a concoction Elena made to treat sunburns.

“Are you sure?” Ike pressed, ever empathic.

“You have something on your face,” Soren replied coolly.

Ike touched his cheek as if he’d forgotten, and he smiled when the cream squished between his fingers. Soren knew what was coming and dodged when Ike tried to wipe the paste on him. He let Ike chase him around the room until Elena told them to stop, and he was surprised to find he felt a little better.

Greil was clearly not around, so Soren resigned himself to waiting. Although Elena may have been able to answer his questions, Greil would certainly answer them more directly, and that is what Soren wanted.

“Why don’t you boys start husking the corn?” Elena asked without looking up from her mending. She cocked her head toward the basket in the sink basin, and the tips of her blue hair bounced against her jaw.

“I just have to change first,” Soren agreed, and Ike pulled a face.

“Good, because you reek!” he teased.

A retort formed on Soren’s lips, but he let it fade. He didn’t have the energy to tease him back today. Now that the game of chase was over, his thoughts were once again consumed by unanswered questions.

The man appeared just in time to eat. At the dinner table, he and Elena discussed what was going on in town and what was going on in the country in equal measure. The meal was eaten, and the kitchen cleaned. The summer sun finally dipped behind the horizon.

Elena took Mist and Ike out to catch fireflies, and Soren was relieved he would have the chance to be alone with Greil. He presented himself before the man and opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by Greil asking, “Ah, Soren, do you have a moment?”

Soren was so surprised he nearly forgot what he was going to say. “Yes, sir,” he managed, realizing Elena had taken her children outside for some ulterior purpose.

Greil lowered himself into his favorite chair, one he’d carved and upholstered himself last spring. In the colder months the chairs formed an arc around the hearth, but at this time of year they were faced the large window overlooking Elena’s garden. Soren placed himself carefully in another of the chairs and waited for Greil to speak first.

“You’re a good kid, Soren,” Greil began.

“Yes, sir,” Soren replied quickly.

“I remember when you first came to us and you could hardly say a few words, but now you can converse easily. That tells me you’re smart.”

“Yes, sir,” Soren said again. (He certainly didn’t feel he was conversing easily right now.)

“And I trust you can use that wind tome?” Greil waved his hand toward the black leather satchel hanging by the door.

“Yes, sir.”

“Show me.”

Soren didn’t think he could be more surprised. “But you told me I shouldn’t use magic…”

“I did. And you’ve done well following that order, but now I want to see what you can do. Bear with me.”

Soren trusted Greil, so he went to his satchel and removed the spell book. The weight was so familiar, even though it had been almost two years since he’d actually used it. He was out of practice, and his heart thumped excitedly at the chance to use his skills again. “What should I do?”

Greil stood and walked to the window. “Could you hit the scarecrow from here?”

“Through the window?” Soren asked, eyeing the bucket-headed post sticking out of Elena’s garden.

In answer, Greil pushed open the foggy glass panes as far as they could go. “Is that a problem?”

Soren shook his head and stood in front of the window. The chairs around him made him feel as if there were five invisible spectators judging his performance, but really it was only Greil, his palm on the wall, his other hand on his hip, watching the scarecrow, waiting for Soren to begin.

Soren took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and took another deep breath. He whispered the words first, to refamiliarize himself with the lilt of the language, and a thrill ran through his whole body. Then he said the words louder, channeling his own will and merging it with the power contained within the ink and paper:

“*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me*.”

The spirits were more unwieldly than Soren remembered, and they fought against his control, with small breezes branching off of the main gust. But he still managed to keep most of them flying straight and sharp, and the main gust whacked into the T-shaped frame of the scarecrow, blowing tears through the old shirt it wore and shaking its bucket head until it tipped up and fell to the ground. Then the spell died, and Soren assessed the damage with a wince. There were faint scratch marks in the wood both above and below the window, and the tops of some of Elena’s plants had been lopped off or their leaves shredded.

Soren looked up at Greil, waiting for his punishment, but the large man was just rubbing his chin. “Not bad.”.

“It was messy,” Soren correct him, not wanting to disagree with the man but also refusing to be coddled.

Greil shrugged and sat back down. “I want to talk to you about an opportunity.”

Soren took one of the other seats.

“How old are you now?”

“Nine,” Soren answered.

Greil seemed to be grappling with some idea. “Well, the opportunity is this: I am considering forming a little mercenary company. I have a couple people lined up if I decide to go through with it. But even with additional members, we would be a small band. I believe in quality not quantity.”

“We?” Soren repeated, trying to keep the incredulousness out of his voice.

“That is what I’m asking,” Greil explained. “I want to know if you’d be interested in joining. Now, you don’t need to commit. I don’t even know if this is going to happen. And you would have to train hard to pass muster. But in a few years, if you’re interested, this could be a way for you to get the skills you need to make a life for yourself.” 

Soren was shocked; he’d had no idea Greil and Elena had been planning anything like this. But he tried to overcome his astonishment and consider the offer logically. On one hand, the job of a mercenary was dangerous. They risked life and limb and only survived if they were decent fighters. If they were not, they died without fanfare. On the other hand, he would be able to actually use his skills as a mage and even develop them through practice. Most importantly, however, Soren knew he didn’t have many other options. If Greil was offering him a position as a mercenary, it must be because he had no luck finding another arrangement for his future.

“Okay,” he finally answered.

“You’d want to join?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to agree for my sake,” Greil continued. “You don’t have to tell me what you think I want to hear.”

Soren shook his head. “I don’t do that.”

He twitched a smile. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’d rather be a mercenary than nothing,” Soren answered honestly.

Greil sighed again. “Alright then, why don’t we catch up to the others? I’ll keep you updated from now on about any plans Elena and I make concerning the company.” He stood again, but Soren stopped him:

“Wait.”

Greil looked surprised but then erased the expression. “Of course, you must have questions. Shoot.”

“No, that’s not it.” He took a steadying breath, and Greil sat back down. “There was something I wanted to ask you, before any of this mercenary business.”

Greil knitted his thick eyebrows together. “Fire away.”

Soren ran a fingernail down the corner of the pages in his tome, taking comfort from the soft paper. “I overheard some people talking today…and it wasn’t the first time. I can’t stand not knowing anymore. I need you to tell me: What is a Branded?” He could not stop the panic rising in his voice.

Greil took a long time to respond, and each passing second was agonizing. He moved his gaze around as if in thought. He knotted and unknotted his jaw. He closed the window when a moth flew in, but then he stood still, and the fluttering of the moth’s fat gray wings were the only sound or motion in the still, silent room.

Soren felt almost guilty, as if he’d asked something he shouldn’t have. But he had finally worked up the nerve, and he refused to be ignored. “Sir, my question,” he re-prompted. “People have called me that before. What is it?”

Greil didn’t seem happy to do it, but he started talking: “I once knew a man whose mother was human and whose father… Well, he had a little something else in him.” He latched the window, turned, and sat back down.

Meanwhile Soren replayed this statement in his mind. He didn’t quite understand the implication, but he had an ominous feeling.

Greil placed his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. “He was a good man, a good soldier. I trained him, taught him everything I knew. He was an exceptional swordsman and is probably still today… Nobody but I knew he had mixed blood, and I don’t even think he realized I knew the truth. His Brand was on his back, easy to conceal. And he was the first in his line to have one, so maybe he didn’t even know…” Greil cleared his throat. “But I investigated his lineage until I found out about his great-grandmother’s affair with a Kilvan pirate. I never told him what I found out…but maybe I should have.” He gave a small, regretful sigh. “Maybe it’s better for lads like you to know the truth.”

Soren felt as if time had slowed, as if it were taking an eternity for Greil to finish his story. Kilvans were subhumans. Kilvans weren’t human. So what did that make a Kilvan’s great-grandchild?

“Branded,” Greil continued, “is what they call people with mixed blood like him, due to the marks they develop early in childhood. Some people believe their very existence is a crime against the Goddess and that the Brands are a warning to stay away. Even those who may not know the term Branded—or even know their origins—are raised to believe marked children are cursed, or even that they’re evil spirits given human form. It is superstition that they bring misfortune and death wherever they go.” Greil gave a small sad sigh. “But I am sure you know that. You have eyes and ears.”

“…No.” Soren stood with his fists clenched to stop them from shaking. “I’m _not_ a subhuman.”

Greil did not appear dissuaded. “Of course not, but someone in your family-”

“No,” he repeated.

Greil sighed sympathetically. “You never knew your family, right?”

“I am a Spirit Charmer, not a Branded!”

“That’s the lie I told you to tell. Do you think it will work on me?”

“Can you disprove it?” Soren demanded in response.

Greil frowned. “No. I suppose not.”

“Can you prove what you claim?” Soren added.

“No, I can’t.” He sighed again. “I’m sorry, lad. I know this isn’t news anyone wants to hear. But remember this—” his voice was firm now “—you are who you are, no matter what else. You are a good kid, a friend to my son, and a damn-good wind mage. Think on that instead.”

Soren shook his head in frustration but growled, “Fine.”

“Now, would you like to join the others?”

“I don’t care about fireflies,” he spat, struggling to keep the anger and pain out of his voice. All he wanted to do was scream, to deny everything Greil had said at the top of his lungs.

“I understand,” Greil replied. “Will you be alright?”

“I’m going to bed,” was Soren’s answer. He stalked up the stairs with a quiet, measured gait even though he wanted to run and stomp his feet. His heart was pumping in his ears, and when he opened to door to Ike’s room, he realized he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling.

He settled his head on his pillow even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He hugged his wind tome to his chest and tried to order his thoughts while staring at the ceiling.

Greil had answered Soren’s question honestly, so he couldn’t be angry about that. He had offered Soren an employment opportunity, so he couldn’t resent the man for stifling him. He had only given Soren encouragement, so he couldn’t feel insulted. And yet he was filled with rage and shame nonetheless.

 _I know what a Branded is now,_ he attempted to reason with himself, _b_ _ut that doesn’t mean I am one._ He eventually fell asleep consoling himself with a new mantra: _This changes nothing._

The next day, Soren easily rationalized away Greil’s assumption. The man had discovered Soren in Gallia, so it was only natural he feared he had something to do with the subhumans. But Soren was from Nevassa, where there were no subhumans for thousands of miles. For whatever reason, Greil and Elena must not have believed him when he said he was from Daein. But Soren knew this was true and therefore could be certain he was not a Branded as various other people wrongly assumed. With this thought in mind, Soren was able to return to his daily routine without distraction.

A storm was coming, and Soren walked briskly back to the house, hoping to reach shelter before getting caught in it. The clouds were rolling in at a lethargic pace, already casting the village in an eerie dark while the distant fields still shone in stark sunlight. The temperature had already dropped, but the breeze was only a lazy tug, not yet the gale the storm promised to bring. The air smelled expectant, and Soren did not know whether it was the pressure or the silence that threatened to pop his ears.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow took off from a metal drain pipe in the alley beside him. The ping reverberated through the still air, and when it faded into silence, Soren heard the first scream.

The cry was cut off prematurely, causing Soren’s skin to prickle. Fear drove him into the crow’s abandoned alleyway. The few other people in the street either ran toward the sound or stood confused. Further shouts and screams followed. Those who had stood in place now chose a direction—toward or away. But Soren remained in the alley.

Not knowing what to do, he sat with his back against the building, held his head, and listened. Shrieks of fear and cries of agony continued on and off for almost a quarter hour. The sky grew heavier and darker, but it did not break. The screams had been growing more and more infrequent in recent minutes. Finally, Soren found he could move.

He crept out into the street, but he did not yet know whether to move west toward the house, downtown to where the screams had come from, or back the way he’d come and therefore to maximal safety. In the end, his curiosity won him over, pulling him as if he were on a chain.

When he turned onto the main street, the first thing he noticed was the swath of red that streaked across his vision. The roadway was a river of blood. Only then did he notice the bodies, and he moved cautiously forward.

Instinct told him this was wrong; he knew he should see the craned body of survivors leaning over their loved ones. But on closer inspection, he realized there had been mourners, but these too were dead, slumped over the bodies of the others.

Instinct told him some people should have escaped; he should have passed injured men and women sending up an alarm. People should have tried to hide exactly where he’d been hiding. At the very least, he should have seen bloody footprints beyond this street. But where the blood stopped, the people stopped. Once again, on closer inspection, Soren realized there had been runners. But they had been slain in one fell swoop, all face-down on the road. Their backs had been ripped open, their spines cut. Soren kept walking.

Now he thought of the houses and businesses lining the street. Instinct told him there should be witnesses, terrified faces in those windows. But there were none. Looking closer, Soren saw that the doors had been kicked in or knocked down. A trail of blood led in and out of each one.

Soren knew he should turn and run. He knew something was wrong here; he knew he was seeing the impossible. But that was exactly why he couldn’t turn away. Covering his mouth against the smell, he followed the sound of another scream.

Soon he reached a section of the road that appeared to be the epicenter of what had happened—what was still happening. The flagstones were chipped. Windows were shattered, siding sliced, and pillars splintered. Arrows were imbedded in wood and dirt. Swords lay where they’d been dropped, their blades pitted. Spears broken clean in two littered the ground.

Heavily armed men in dark clothes and sparse armor were scattered over the street. Soren didn’t recognize them, but around them also lay men he knew belonged to the village’s militia. They had been wielding their standard-issue weapons and wearing nothing for protection but their regular clothes. Walking farther, Soren found soldiers from the local outpost, but their armor had done nothing to protect them. The metal plating was crumpled like paper. Among them was the gleaming amber armor of the Royal Knight who’d stayed here this past month. Even he had died like a dog.

Of course, there were civilians too: shopkeepers, tradesmen, parents, and children. Soren knew these people, but they looked like strangers now that their broken bodies lay beside the road. The wounds on their backs, necks, and stomachs looked like wet, red flowers with the petals pulled back. Their eyes were open, unseeing. Their faces were frozen in terror.

Soren’s mind raced to come up with an explanation, but he could not. The sounds of slaughter continued nearby, but there was not a single sound of combat. Everyone capable of fighting was already dead. Whatever this massacre was, it was still happening, and now there was nothing to stop it.

Soren was debating whether to run or investigate further, when a sudden urgent thought tore through his mind: _What about Ike?_ He began dashing here and there, checking the bodies for his friend. Where the bodies had fallen in piles, he pushed some off others to reveal them, and when he did see a blue-haired child, he had to roll the body over to confirm it was not Ike. Although Soren had never prayed to Ashera before, he begged her now, over and over, that Ike and his family were safely at home.

His sleeves and knees were soon coated in blood, and he was sweating both from the rigorous work and the panic. The disgust he felt at seeing and touching the bodies was nothing compared to the thought of his friend as one of them. Bile collected in his throat, tears stung his eyes, and he resisted the urge to vomit.

His search brought him closer to the adjacent street where he knew the carnage was ongoing. He could hear footsteps, whimpering, the swinging of a blade, a scream, a thump. But Soren turned the corner anyway. He had to follow the bodies. He had to confirm Ike was safe. Keeping low and quiet, he found himself at the bottom of the steps leading up the hill. Both the steps and the road above were littered in even more corpses.

Soren raised his eyes and saw the shape of a man, but it could hardly be a man, because it moved too quickly and too jaggedly. It swung a sword left and right, cutting down anyone who tried to fight it off and anyone trying to run from it. When it struck, it struck with more force than a man should be capable of exerting. The blade cut deep, crushed bone, and flung bodies to the ground, killing them instantly. A blue aura rippled around the man, and Soren knew no explanation for what he was witnessing.

Soren watched him cut down the baker sheltering his wife and daughter as they made a mad dash out of their bakery. First the baker died. Then his wife. Then his daughter. Soren could only stare.

But then someone else ran toward the swordsman. She was limping, bleeding, but alive and light on her feet as if carried by unearthly purpose. “ENOUGH!” she cried in a wretched voice. She dove for the man’s hand, just as he spun around, blade-first.

The sword pierced the woman straight between her lungs, sprouting out of her back and stopping her charge. But she’d succeeded in tearing something out of his grip. Both stood completely still, as if time had stopped. The haze around the man faded, and Soren’s mind finally processed what he was seeing:

The blood-caked swordsman was Greil.

The limp woman was Elena.

This shock was worse than anything Soren had seen so far. He had been frozen until this point, but now he found he could move. Greil hadn’t seen him yet, so he lowered himself to the ground on slow, shaky limbs. Lying on his stomach, he tried to hide himself behind the body of a dead man, but he did not take his eyes off Greil and Elena.

Finally the moment broke, and Greil’s legs buckled. The motion caused a bronze medallion to fall from Elena’s slackened fingers—the same pendant she had always worn around her neck. It bounced, rolled, wobbled, and fell in a puddle of blood. Greil knelt, looping an arm around Elena’s back. He withdrew the sword with a sickening sound and tossed it aside.

“What have I done? Elena!” Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he pulled Elena’s body into him even while her head lolled back. His shoulders were racked with sobs, and for the first time, Soren noticed the arrows lodged in his arms, legs, and back. But Greil hardly seemed to notice them, and none seemed as deep as they should have been.

It was just another impossible detail in the entire impossible scene. Soren could not rationalize this; he could not believe what he’d seen with his own eyes. A single man could not have killed all of these people, and even if he could, that man could not be Greil. He was Ike’s father. He was good.

From his vantage point on the ground, Soren could not tell if any of the bodies near Greil belonged to Ike, but he couldn’t risk getting any closer. Greil seemed entirely consumed by his grief, so Soren thought he could escape if he moved now. He slowly crawled backward, and when he was out of view of Greil’s street, he hopped to his feet and ran as fast as he could to the house where he prayed Ike would be.

Thunder rolled through the sky, finally shaking free the multitude of fat drops waiting there. They fell heavy and cold, immediately soaking Soren to the bone. But he didn’t stop running until he reached the house. This side of town was completely untouched, but Soren wasn’t assured until he saw warm lights in the windows. Greil and Elena wouldn’t leave Mist home alone, so he could safely assume Ike was inside. He was about to charge in and confirm this with his own eyes, when he remembered his clothes were soaked in blood as well as water.

Stripping off his shirt, he left it in the trough and tucked his shoes underneath. The packhorse’s nostrils flared at the scent, and its eyes widened.

There was a good deal of blood on Soren’s trousers as well, but he did not want to walk into the house in nothing but his underpants, so he took clods of wet dirt and smeared it over the blood. Then he entered the house, shivering and with arms crossed over his skinny chest.

“Soren! You’re back late,” Ike greeted him. “What happened to your clothes?”

“The storm,” Soren lied vaguely. He walked past Ike straight for the stairs. He couldn’t face him or Mist right now, and needing to get dressed was as good an excuse as any.

“Naked rain!” Mist sang, jumping from one chair to another in a circle. “Naked rain! Naked, naked, naked rain!”

Closing the door to Ike’s room, Soren muffled her song. He immediately stripped off the soaking wet, bloody, mud-encrusted trousers. Wrapping them in a ball, he opened the glass pane and storm shutters just enough to toss the ball into the horse’s trough below. He heard the old horse whinny and rear at the unexpectedly falling pants, but Soren couldn’t stand to leave the bloody garment in the house where Ike could find it.

Back downstairs, he used the washbasin to scrub his whole body, but most important were his hands. They were still shaking, and it was not just from the cold. It took a long time, even with the abrasive soap Elena had concocted. Finding a pair of nail sheers, he clipped his fingernails down as far as he could to remove the blood underneath, but he accidentally drew his own blood in the process. It took him several minutes to realize this, because he could hardly feel it. He was still numb.

When the last hint of red was gone and his broken nails were bandaged, Soren dried himself and dressed in fresh clothes. He had finally stopped shaking, and in this strange new calm, he wondered if any townsfolk were investigating the massacre right now or if they would wait until the storm passed. He wondered if they would find Greil and if they would try to kill him. He wondered if Greil would kill again to protect himself. He wondered if he would try to escape and pretend to be innocent. He wondered if he would try to eliminate any witnesses, and with a detached sort of fear that wasn’t fear at all, he realized he was a witness. Most of all, he wondered if Greil would come back here, and if so, when.

The house was still empty save for Ike and Mist when Soren emerged. Mist was playing with her dolls by the empty hearth, and Ike was eating an apple while lazily flicking the seeds at her.

“Stop it!” Mist whined, and when Ike did not stop, she added, “I’m gonna tell Momma!”

At this, Ike did stop, and he turned his face to the front window. “I wonder where they are anyway.”

“Where did they go?” Soren asked, having decided to feign ignorance of today’s events.

“They said they went out to meet someone.” Ike waved a hand disinterestedly. “They should be back soon.”

Soren felt like something was lodged in his throat. He did not know what to say, but telling Ike the truth was out of the question. The mother he adored was dead, and the father he admired more than anyone had killed her. Soren did not know why or how Greil had done what he did, and that meant he did not know what Greil was capable of doing. Ike could very well be in danger.

“Ike, we have to leave,” he whispered. They were the only words that made any sense. “We have to leave before your father comes back.”

Ike cocked his head and made an incredulous face. “What are you talking about, silly Soren?”

“I can’t tell you why, but it’s not safe here. We should both run. We can use the storm as cover. I will protect you.” The words came in a rush. “We have to go.”

“Is this some sort of game?” Ike asked curiously.

Soren thought for a moment. “Yes, it’s a game. Will you go with me?”

Ike seemed to consider this. He looked at the storm battering the shuttered windows and then at Mist playing quietly on the floor. “I’m in charge of Mist when Momma and Father are away, so she would have to play with us too. But it’s thundering and lightninging out there, and it might be dangerous for her because she’s smaller than us.”

Soren’s heart sank at Ike’s rationale. He knew it had been a long shot. Ike could be tricked, but not to the extent that he would leave his family behind. “It’s alright,” he finally said. “It was a stupid idea.”

“We can play runaways inside the house though,” Ike offered.

Soren shook his head. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

He sat on one of the chairs Mist had arranged for jumping and stared at his knees. _If Ike won’t go, should I leave on my own?_ He considered this at length but eventually decided to stay. There was a chance Greil would never return. He could be killed or arrested, or he could flee town to escape justice. If that happened, Soren wanted to be here for Ike. And if Greil did return, Soren wanted to protect Ike from him. With this thought in mind, he retrieved his tome and waited.

An hour ticked by. Despite the grotesque things he’d seen today—the things he still saw now with his waking eyes—Soren couldn’t deny he was getting hungry. He could tell Mist and Ike were feeling the same way, and they both seemed subdued with worry that neither Greil nor Elena had returned. Soren slipped his tome into his satchel and wore it over his shoulder as he went into the pantry to find something he could make for them to eat. Ike saw what he was doing and helped.

Another hour passed, and the storm was long over. The darkness of evening replaced the dark of the thunderclouds, and Soren watched the street from the window, hoping to see some sign of how the town was reacting to the massacre. Meanwhile, Ike drew pictures of heroes and monsters and Mist drew princesses and pegasi, each sharing the bits of charcoal and scraps of paper.

Finally Soren saw Greil’s face in the window, and he retreated, heart beating fast. The man strode in, and the first thing Soren noticed was that his face and hands had been washed of blood and he was wearing different clothes. He shrugged off an oilskin jacket slick with rainwater to reveal that his clothes were damp too. He moved as if his arms were weakened, and Soren saw bandages where there had been arrows in his flesh. His shoulders sagged, and he removed his boots as if it were an exhausting ordeal. When this was done, he limped forward, and Soren saw that his eyes were bloodshot and had dark bags underneath.

Ike and Mist had clearly realized something was wrong as soon as they’d seen their father enter the house looking so defeated. They had not run to him with happy chatter and smiles. They’d merely risen and stared at him. Mist took Ike’s arm, and he did not pull away. “Father?” he asked timidly.

Soren took a step back and wished he could blend into the wall and disappear.

“Father?” Ike repeated.

Greil knelt in front of them, and his eyes were on Mist. “Take it,” he said, holding out a small cloth bag.

Mist let go of Ike’s arm to accept the gift. Loosening the drawstrings, she tumbled the contents into her hand. “It’s Momma’s necklace!” she announced in awe.

“Put it on,” Greil said in a strangled whisper.

Mist did so, and Soren could only stare at the bronze medallion. Greil must have wiped it clean, but he imagined he could still see the bloodstains.

“Keep it safe, my dear.” Greil ran a trembling hand down the side of her hair.

“I will,” Mist promised, “but what about Momma?”

Greil just shook his head. Soren had no doubt his grief was real, which was why it didn’t make sense that he would have killed Elena to begin with.

“Can I hold it?” Ike reached for the medallion only to have Greil slap his hand away. The boy’s eyes welled with tears.

“Ike, you are never to touch that medallion! It is Mist’s now. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, sir,” he managed, even while his tears started to spill.

Greil seemed to regret his harsh action, and he grasped Ike’s arm with one hand while clamping Mist’s shoulder with the other. He moved his jaw but made no words.

“Fader,” Mist asked, “What about Momma? Momma should have Momma’s necklace, not me.”

Greil stared at the floor between them for a long time, seeming to summon his courage. When he did, he looked almost like his old self. “I am so sorry, Ike, Mist.” He wrapped them both in a tight embrace. “There was an accident. Your mother is not going to come home.” He gulped, and his voice broke. “She’s gone.”

“No.” Ike tried to pull away but could not. From across the room, Soren could see his face split in two. Mist nuzzled into Greil’s neck and began to cry. Ike kept trying to shake his head and pull out of the embrace, but when Greil’s hand cupped the back of his head, he froze and started sobbing into his other shoulder.

Soren suddenly felt like he shouldn’t be here. He could try to imagine their grief, but in his heart, he knew he could never truly understand it. The wind tome felt useless in his hands, just a silly book. He felt invisible, watching his friend’s world be torn apart and unable to offer even a word or gesture of comfort. Ike needed his father now, no matter what Greil had done.

With this thought in mind, Soren decided the man who had entered this house was not a murderous lunatic. He quietly retreated to the second floor, where he laid down on his cot and was suddenly overcome by exhaustion. He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t know what he should do now. But he did know he was tired, so he slept. 

He woke immediately upon hearing the stairs creak. Someone went into Greil and Elena’s room. Soren threw his legs over the side of the cot, lit a candle, and waited. The door across the hall clicked closed and someone knocked on Ike’s door.

“I’m awake,” Soren replied, just loud enough to be audible.

Greil pushed open the door. Bringing one finger to his lips, he jerked his opposite thumb at the door to his and Elena’s room. Evidently he’d put Ike and Mist to sleep there. Then he stepped back and gestured that Soren should come with him, pointing to the stairs. Soren was nervous, but it was hard to be afraid of a man who looked like a hollow shell of his former self. He followed obediently.

When they were in the kitchen, Greil went to the fire and started some water in the kettle. “I saw your clothes outside,” he began.

“You mean the blood,” was Soren’s response.

“You’re not injured, are you?”

Soren supposed this was a good indication that Greil didn’t remember who he’d slaughtered, which was also a promising sign that he did not know Soren had seen him. “It wasn’t my blood,” he answered.

“But you… You were there, today. Did you see anything? …Did you see who did it?” Greil was no good at playing coy, but Soren supposed he wouldn’t be good at doing anything right now. There was no vigor in his body or voice.

“I was on my way back from the tannery. I hid when I heard the screams,” Soren answered honestly. “When it was over, I found the bodies.” It was only a half-lie. “They were all dead, and whoever did it was gone.”

Greil was silent for a while. When he spoke it was to say, “Elena was one of the causalities, but I don’t want Ike and Mist to know she died the way she did. I don’t want them to know anything about what happened… Thank you for not saying anything.”

Now it was Soren who carried the silence. When he finally spoke, it was to ask the only question he could without betraying what he knew: “Were there any survivors?”

Greil stared at his hands, which were now heavily bandaged. “Not many,” he answered. “A handful of children whose parents managed to hide them. A couple people whose injuries were not serious enough to kill them…yet. They’re delirious from blood loss and may not survive the night.”

Soren chose his next questions carefully: “Is anyone investigating what happened? Can the survivors indicate the perpetrators of the attack?” He decided to make it seem as if he were assuming the massacre was carried out by a group of individuals, to further distance himself as a possible witness.

The man shook his head. “They’re in shock, incoherent. But it’s clear they don’t know what they saw.”

Soren supposed this was fortunate for Greil, but the man did not look pleased or relieved. He only looked grief-stricken. Just then, the kettle began the airy hiss that would precede a full-blown whistle. Greil poured a mug of Elena’s favorite tea for each of them.

When he sat back down, he said, “I buried Elena.”

Soren did not know how to reply to that, so he did not. He tried to think of ways he could ask his questions without making Greil suspicious. “Do you know what happened?” he finally asked, judging that it was a safe enough question. “Is this likely to happen again?”

Greil shook his head. “This will never happen again,” he promised, and there was a spark of life in his voice for the first time tonight.

It was almost enough to make Soren believe him. But he knew he could never again trust Greil or safely predict what the man was capable of.

“We will have to leave,” Greil said when he spoke again. “I can’t raise my children in the place where this happened.”

Soren nodded slowly.

“You’re free to come with us if you like.” Greil did not wait for a response. He stood, taking his tea in hand, and climbed the stairs back to the room where his children were sleeping.

The next day Greil left early, but he would not say where he was going or what he was doing. “Don’t leave the house,” he ordered. “Ike, you’re in charge of Mist. I’ll be sure to send someone to check on you both by noon.”

Ike’s and Mist’s face were still swollen and blotchy, and they had not had much to eat for breakfast. They sat at the table with their watery porridge and watched their father leave with forlorn eyes.

After eating and dressing, Soren decided he needed to leave too. He couldn’t stand to remain in the house, watching his friend struggling with grief and confusion and unable to relieve any of his pain.

“Where are you going?” Ike asked hollowly when Soren was lacing his shoes.

“Out,” he answered, and Ike didn’t ask him to stay.

He crept along the streets, looking and listening for any clue about how the town was handling the catastrophe. When he reached the main street, he saw dozens of people scrubbing the flagstones in unison. The dead were lined up neatly, with blankets covering them and people guarding them to keep the birds away.

As Soren watched, groups of three or four came with small carts, loaded a body each, and took them away, presumably to be buried. He spotted Greil in one of these groups, his hands and pants streaked with dirt and his brow damp with sweat. No one was treating him unusually, and Soren assumed nobody had any idea he’d been the cause of all this. 

The townsfolk buzzed quietly out of grief, but they buzzed nonetheless. By listening to their conversations, Soren quickly discovered the most popular explanation was that a band of rogue subhumans had come across the Gallian border and attacked the town in a mindless rage. There were many things wrong with this explanation: the lack of pawprints in the blood, the fact that the wounds had been inflicted with a sword, the fact that no one who’d overheard the attack reported hearing growls or roars, or that none of the border towns between here and Gallia had seen anything resembling an attack like this. But Soren supposed it was easier to blame the creatures they already hated.

For that same reason, Soren was careful to stay out of sight. He knew it was only too likely that the townspeople would somehow blame him for this. He could already hear the shrill voices and see the pointing fingers accusing him cursing the town with his presence. So once he’d seen his fill of the town’s cleansing efforts, he crept back to the house.

A neighbor arrived around noon, as Greil had promised. He must have told her to lie, because she calmly told Ike and Mist that there had been an accident during the storm (of course, she kept the details vague) and said Greil was helping clean up.

The next day, a troop of five Royal Knights arrived to investigate the massacre. After interviewing dozens of the civilians and examining the unfamiliar corpses Soren had noticed, they declared that these unknown men and women were likely the perpetrators of the attack. They gave a local artist a few coins to sketch the dead faces, and then they took the drawings and bodies away with them. Greil was in the clear.

However, he must have still thought he was in danger, because he wasted no time selling the family’s extraneous possessions and packing the cart with supplies. Ike and Mist had to have realized they were on the verge of moving again, but neither asked Greil about it. He brought them to visit Elena’s gravesite once, but other than that, neither had left the house since the storm. They still didn’t know the truth, and Soren realized they probably never would. Greil was clearly in control.

Three days after the massacre, Soren finally made a decision. The prospect of staying with the broken family for even another day made his skin crawl, and every moment he spent in the silent house was torture. He was none too fond of the idea of being dependent on Greil anymore either, so he decided to leave.

He didn’t tell Ike he was going away; he couldn’t bear to. He packed a rucksack, donned the satchel containing his wind tome, and stole an additional cloak he hoped would come in handy during the autumn and winter months. He filched a few other items, including a knife, a canteen, a length of rope, and flint for starting fires (Elena had taught him what Sileas had not). He had a grand total of eleven copper pieces to his name, but at least he was better off than when he’d left Sileas’s hovel two years ago.

Ike had grown used to Soren coming and going from the house while he and Mist morosely bided their time within the confines of the walls. So he didn’t say goodbye when Soren opened the door this time. He did not look up, or he would have seen that Soren was weighed down by supplies and leaving forever. But Soren did look back, and he determined to remember Ike as the bright-eyed child he’d been before losing his mother.


	7. CHAPTER 7: SURVIVAL

After two days of walking, Soren found himself wishing he didn’t have quite so many fond memories of Ike to look back on. They were like poison weakening his legs and his resolve. The sun felt too hot, the air too humid, his throat too parched, and his stomach too empty. He had come to know ease and comfort, and it had ruined him for the way the world truly was.

The days stretched into a week, and then one week became two. He’d quickly spent his meager coins and eaten through the food he’d taken. Now he survived on the ample fields that crosshatched the Crimean countryside like a quilt of golds and greens. He slept under the stars on clear nights and sought shelter wherever he could when it rained. This often meant someone’s barn, carriage house, or tool shed. He used wind magic to break locks when necessary and became quite adept at the simple, albeit precise, technique.

He passed people each day, and for the most part, he was treated warily but not unkindly. When people asked him who he was and where he was headed, he’d claim to be the apprentice of a mage in Melior embarking on a pilgrimage as part of his training. The yokels ate this up. If they showed any concern or suspicion, Soren assured them he was traveling alone of his own free will. He carried himself with confidence, and if anyone asked about his age, he claimed to be older than he was. If need be, he also claimed to be a Spirit Charmer, but as Greil had predicted, most people did not know or care what that was. Soren soon learned that a haughty tone, a passive expression, and a wind tome at his side were enough to satisfy the people’s curiosity or dissuade them from their fears.

The weeks turned into months, and summer faded into fall. The leaves on the trees crisped, the nights grew colder, and the fields were harvested, leaving little for Soren to steal. As he grew hungrier (and dirtier), his performance became less convincing. People regarded him with open distrust. They no longer believed his lies, clearly assuming he was a thief or a runaway. Some reported him to the local militia, while others threatened violence if he kept loitering around their fields and pastures. Soren always moved on. He was never arrested, and none of the people who threatened him actually hurt him.

When the last autumnal crops were squirreled away, leaving nothing at all for Soren to scavenge, the first frost bit the earth, and he woke up feeling half-frozen and terrified. He built a fire (heedless of who might see the smoke and come investigate) and was not satisfied until he could feel all his fingers and toes again. Stamping out the embers, he decided the countryside was too exposed. He would never survive a winter battling the elements, so he set a course for the nearest city.

The city’s name was Nirse, and its expertise was in textiles. The best cloth in Crimea was produced here, and Soren hoped to find work at one of the mills. He asked anyone who would talk to him to point him toward a factory with openings and soon discovered that any of them would take on a new hand as long as they were cheap and had all of their fingers and half a lick of sense.

The first boss he met gave him a cot in a hole with a dozen other dirty-faced children, and within an hour Soren was at work, mindlessly moving a shuttle across the length of a loom, elbow-to-elbow with orphans and vagabonds.

The other adolescents prodded and teased Soren while they worked, trying to intimidate him, to break his concentration, perhaps force him to make a mistake and get thrown out. It was clear they didn’t want him here. But Soren kept his head down and did as he had been instructed. No one could pester him with any seriousness, because they had their own looms to attend.

When the shift ended, however, that was a different story. The children stood in a line to receive their wages and their evening gruel, and here they began challenging Soren in earnest. One of the older boys came up behind him, wrapping an arm around his neck and squeezing. “Leave,” he whispered in Soren’s ear, “if ya know wha’s good f’r ya.”

Soren tried to pull the boy’s arm away, but he was stronger and didn’t let go until he wanted to. Soren coughed, and the line moved on.

The overseer gave Soren a single copper piece for his half-day’s work, while the other weavers received two each. But he was not allowed to keep it for long. Another of the boys grabbed his wrist before he could put the coin in his pocket and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to lean over. “Give it,” he growled.

Soren clasped the coin tightly in his fist and tried to break free. But his nose was within easy reach of another kid’s knee, which came up fast.

Soren released his fingers, and the coin slipped into the boy’s hand. He instantly released Soren, who covered his bleeding nose. It wasn’t broken, but it still hurt. Turning over his shoulder, he saw the overseer still passing out coins to the other children. He must have seen what had happened, but he didn’t seem to care.

The line moved onto where some sort of brown slop was being served out of a large pot. Each of the children in front of him pulled a dirty bowl from inside their shirts or bags. Soren did not have a bowl, and he explained this when he reached the server.

“You get one,” the server answered, taking a bowl off the stack behind him. “Don’t lose it.” One ladleful of the mysterious cuisine fell into the bowl, and the server threw a small slice of gray bread on top. Soren’s stomach ached hungrily at the smell. This was the only meal the mill provided its young weavers, and it was certainly the only meal Soren had had today.

He planned to head outside and find some secluded corner to eat in safety, but he didn’t make it that far. Two children blocked the door, and another came up behind him. She reached for the bowl, snarling happily: “Oh boy, seconds.”

Soren jerked the bowl away, but that only made her smile. “Careful, you’ll spill.”

She reached again, and Soren dodged again. But this time one of the children sprang forward and seized the bowl from the other side. Soren struggled to hold on, and hot gruel washed over both of their hands.

“Let go!” the kid growled, but Soren refused.

Then the girl who’d originally tried taking the bowl bashed down on both their arms, ending the struggle. The bowl fell to the ground, spilling everywhere. “Now look what ya did,” she sneered in satisfaction.

The other kid laughed, and the one blocking the door came forward to see the result. Standing in front of the trio, Soren was filled with rage, but he knew he would lose if he tried to fight. Even if he could utter a spell in time, amateur wind magic wouldn’t be much help against three opponents.

“Hey, you little shits!” the server called from across the room. “Clean that up!”

“You heard Ol’ Sal,” said the leader. “Clean it up.”

“With what?” Soren dared ask.

“You got a tongue, don’t ya?”

Soren wondered if he could escape unscathed if he just decided to walk away. “I’m not hungry,” he lied and made for the door. He fully expected to be hit from behind, and he was prepared to duck if he heard a blow coming. But it didn’t.

Once outside in the cool night air, Soren licked the spillage from his hands and set about searching for a garbage heap and perhaps something edible somewhere in it. When it became too cold to stay outside, he returned to the mill and crawled into the hole with the other children. They jeered and threatened him as soon as he arrived, but they didn’t attack.

The threadbare blanket the overseer had put on the cot was gone, so Soren just curled up and wrapped his extra cloak around himself. The stolen blanket was to be expected, and on the bright side, he was relieved to find no urine or fecal matter had been left in its place. He knew how cruel children could be. 

He slept lightly and woke quickly when he heard footsteps. However, waking suddenly did little to stop the blanket being pressed over his face or the wiry little hands holding his arms down. Soren kicked and squirmed, struggling to breathe.

“ _Leave_ ,” a voice hissed. “We don’t need a freak like you making things worse for us.”

At that, Soren stopped squirming and the blanket came off his face. He gasped the stale air, and bodies moved away from him in the dark. All of the righteous anger Soren felt at his treatment suddenly blew out of him. He knew he shouldn’t have expected anything better. People would always seem him as a curse, and they would do whatever they could to relieve themselves of that curse. These were scared, starving kids. They didn’t owe him the benefit of the doubt.

Despite the difficult first day and night, Soren stayed at the mill another week. He tried to make it work, quickly learning that he was more likely to keep his pay if he was one of the first in line to receive it and if he found a place away from the mill to hide it. Similarly, he learned he was more likely to eat his gruel if he poured it down his throat standing up, as soon as it entered his bowl. He learned to sleep under his cot, rather than on top of it, and he learned to spend as little time as possible in the mill or in the hole when not working or sleeping. Even if the streets were cold, most of the other children wouldn’t torment, and if they did, there was a better chance of escape.

But Soren was constantly hungry and exhausted, and he decided he was not able to keep enough of his pay to make the long hours kneeling at the loom worthwhile. So he left the mill at the end of the week and found a different boss.

People’s habits were more or less the same wherever he went: the adults didn’t care about his birthmark as long as he could work, but the children did. An overseer would show him the ropes and leave him alone. From that point on, the kids would try to force him out. Soren did his best to survive, and he used magic to fight back only on three occasions, when he reasoned that the display of force was more likely to get him out of trouble than into deeper into trouble. Two of the three times, he was right and the ploy worked. But on the third occasion, the spell didn’t do as much damage as he’d hoped, and in return for the scratch, the older kid beat Soren worse than he had been in a long time.

Soren lost two teeth (accidentally swallowing one), but at least they were baby teeth and so no permanent damage was done. His left eye swelled shut, but he hoped his vision would be fine when the swelling went down. None of his limbs were broken, but his right arm was dislocated and had to be popped back into place by the overseer.

The perpetrator was not kicked out, but his day’s wage was docked. The overseer was clearly angry one of his weavers had been impaired. “You’d better be able to work tomorrow,” he warned him, “or you’re out of here.”

Soren returned to the loom the next day, but he could hardly move his arm. Deciding it was not worth the pain or the paltry wage, let alone the increased risk of losing a finger to the machine, Soren eventually left his post and walked out of the mill. He wouldn’t be paid a half-day’s wage, but he didn’t care. He curled up in the weaver’s quarters to get some rest until the overseer came with a whip and shouted at him to get out. Soren obeyed, and use of the whip was unnecessary.

Snow had set in for the winter, and Soren felt trapped in the city, certain that leaving would mean dying from exposure. At least here he could burn trash and bits of pilfered wood in a secluded alleyway and keep himself warm for a night. There were other homeless people in these alleys—the ones who were too sick to work or were missing appendages and therefore useless in the textile mills. Others were mad, mumbling to themselves and behaving erratically, although they were otherwise whole.

Forced to mingle with the dregs of society, forced to steal, crawl, and hide to survive, Soren passed the long hard winter. He had kept the bowl from the first factory, and sometimes he set it on the ground beyond the gates of the city’s temple, where he could spend a couple hours begging during the warmest part of the day. If he kept his head tucked down, no one saw his birthmark and assumed he was just another pathetic orphan. Sometimes this masquerade earned him a copper coin thrown into his bowl. But more often, an acolyte from the temple would come out and shoo him with a broom.

They knew his face from the time he’d joined the other homeless and helpless people who sought alms here. The priests gave the poor folk bread and broth once a week, but upon seeing Soren’s mark, they had refused to give him anything and begun chanting prayers of purification. He had left and never set foot within the temple grounds again. Begging outside the front gate was the best he could do—not that he expected any mercy from the Goddess. This was simply where the most charitable fools were likely to pass by.

“Why d’yah fight sah hard tah stah alive?” a grizzled one-eyed, three-toothed man asked Soren one day when the pair shared a fire for warmth. Their paths had crossed often enough the past two months, and he always seemed amused by Soren’s daily efforts to find food and shelter. “Can’t yah tehk ah hint? Nob’dy wants yah breathin’ up their air and bein’round where their eyes can see yah.”

Soren scowled over the tiny flame and refused to answer. But he did ponder the question in the privacy of his mind. In truth, the prospect of giving up had never occurred to him. Even if no one thought he had any value now, Soren dreamed of becoming someone of worth—and the first step to that was staying alive long enough to become that person. He refused to succumb to cold and starvation here in this pathetic corner of nowhere.

At the first snowmelt, Soren left Nirse, even though he doubted winter would be gone for long. The warming of the air held the promise of progress, and he was desperate to move on. When a snowstorm hit later that week, Soren hid in a barn until it passed. Once the winds and flying ice had stopped, a farmer came to check on his animals. Finding the barn’s lock broken, he quickly discovered Soren’s hiding place and chased him out. But he did not strike Soren with any of the dangerous-looking implements hanging on the wall, and for that Soren considered himself lucky. 

We wandered the countryside, moving from one small town to the next, over the following days. He asked for work wherever he went, and sometimes he found it. When people were cruel to him or turned him away, he came back in the night and used magic to break into their cellars, storehouses, and barns. He took what he needed to survive, but he was always cautious, fully aware that some people would kill to protect what little they had.

Each day stretched unremarkably into the next, and Soren forgot what trust and charity were. His memories of living with Greil and Elena seemed like a dream he’d made up to ease the bitterness he felt toward every other human he shared this world with.

But once in a while, a rare act of kindness would ground him again, and the days would seem new. Soren was slogging down a country road through a half foot of freshly fallen snow when a friendly voice called to him:

“Supper’ll be served in’n hour or so, kid. Go grab your people an’ come on by!”

Soren turned to the owner of the voice—a teenaged girl perched on the top rung of a fence. She had one leg outstretched with the other crossed over it at the knee. She seemed quite comfortable, precariously balanced as she was.

Soren stepped forward cautiously, knowing that seeing his face was likely to change her tone and retract her offer in an instant.

She did seem surprised, but her expression was more chagrinned than spiteful. “Woah there, you ain’t Gilly and Beb’s kid, huh?”

“I am not,” he answered.

She leapt down from the fence, and Soren got a better look at her. She had long teal hair tied back with a red ribbon, and around her neck was a thick red scarf. The scarf was luxurious and didn’t match the rest of her outfit: boots, overalls, a wool sweater, and a scrap-skin jacket.

“You from aroun’ here? I don’t think I’ve seen your face ‘afore.”

“I am just passing through.”

“Well, my offa’ still stands, you know. It’s Grandaddy’s bir’day, s’all the neighbors are ‘nvited to super. Travelers too, why not, right?”

Soren hesitated. “Are you certain you are in a position to make that offer?”

The girl shrugged. “We’ve got plenty’a food, and we’ve all got to support one o’nother, right? That’s what Ashera teaches us, and it’s what Granddaddy would do. Come on, I’ll show you the way.” She sprung agilely over the fence that had previously been her perch.

Soren hesitated.

“If you’re meetin’ some’n down the roa’ or you got a place to get to’n a hurry, I ‘spect that. But if you’re hungry, don’t be shy. We’re all good people aroun’ here.” 

Soren decided to take her at her word. Forgoing the promise of food was too much for his empty stomach to bear. Not to mention, seeing this girl’s face and hearing her voice devoid of disgust was an enormous relief. She reminded Soren of Ike and his family. She reminded him that Ike, Greil, and Elena had all been real. There were indeed people who could look at Soren without only seeing the mark on his forehead.

“I’m coming,” he said, ducking between the rungs of the fence.

“My name’s Nephenee by the way, kid,” she said when he reached her. She held out her hand, but Soren didn’t take it. Better not to press his luck.

“Soren,” he said simply.

They crossed through a wide pasture containing several clusters of cows. They were lying on their stomachs among the short, bristly grass. Soren thought it looked odd.

“Them lyin’ down like that means it's gonna storm,” Nephenee explained, perhaps noticing his gaze. “The cows always know when it’s gonna start stormin’. This time of year it’s all snow. It’s no good for the preg’nt ones. The cold’s holdin’ on a long time this year, and it’s not lookin’ good for the early calvin’…” She prattled on about cows the rest of the way to the farmhouse, whose porch was lit with a string of paper lanterns.

The house was busy with people cooking, drinking, and laughing, and Soren was nervous to meet so many people at once. He had every expectation that they would not be as welcoming as Nephenee. But the girl had the tact to introduce him as ‘My new friend Soren,’ and the suspicion in the adults’ eyes quickly faded. Once again, Soren was surprised by the effect of a single person vouching for him.

After paying his respects to Nephenee’s ancient and delirious grandfather, Soren scrubbed up in the family’s bathhouse so he wouldn’t stand out as much. Then he kept to the periphery of the party, waiting for the food cooking in the kitchen and in the firepit outside to be served. Then he dug in without hesitation.

When his stomach was full, he grabbed what he could and wrapped it in paper to keep it from staining the wind tome in his satchel. If rationed, these leftovers could hold him over another day or two. Feeling full and sleepy, Soren wished to leave the party as soon as possible and find a place to sleep for the night.

He did not seek Nephenee to say thank you or goodbye. Instead, he slipped off and broke into the family’s grain store half a mile away. The place was heady with the smell of fermenting corn, and Soren let it lull him to sleep.

The cows were right about the snow, and another late-season storm hit that night. The snow blew into a drift against the door, and he had to wait several hours for the sun to soften it enough to dig himself out the next morning.

Soren always kept his ears and eyes open, even while he tried to keep out of sight. This was how he learned of possible opportunities for work or shelter in other towns. He learned to pay special attention to where migrant workers, pilgrims, and other transients were headed. Strangers were not as unexpected in these places, and so he aroused less suspicion.

It was by eavesdropping and following in the footsteps of others that Soren learned of a temple at the intersection of three towns. The holy compound possessed a famous statue of Ashera carved a century ago by one of Crimea’s preeminent sculptors, as well as a library of historical and holy texts for priests and priestesses in training. They were even known for safeguarding a holy artifact known as the Goddess’s Chalice, although the Begnion Theocracy refused to authenticate it.

The errant sons and daughters of noblemen were sent here to learn discipline, and acolytes who had violated the doctrines of their faith came here to take vows of silence as punishment. And despite its colloquial fame, the temple itself was frequented by the farmers, artisans, and merchants who lived in the three surrounding towns. The more Soren heard about the Temple Asic, the more he thought it would be the perfect place to blend in, so he set his feet in that direction.

Eventually large stone lanterns appeared along the roadside. It was twilight now, and someone had already lit them. Soren followed the trail of lights, and the compound soon came into view between two hills.

A large wooden gate marked the entrance to the temple grounds, and to the east was a well-kept cemetery. Abandoning the road for a moment, Soren foraged among the graves to find recent offerings people had left their deceased relatives. Sometimes these foolishly wasted gifts were edible, and he had no qualms about stealing from the dead.

Satisfied he’d found everything there was to eat, Soren returned to the road and passed under the gate. The winding path brought him to an enormous stone statue of Ashera, and cast in the flickering firelight, her rigid face looked monstrous.

After staring for a few moments, Soren realized he was not alone. An elderly man was shuffling in the dark, finishing lighting the braziers. As he added more light, Ashera’s face grew more human, but no less severe.

“You there...” Soren acknowledged his presence although he did not seem to have noticed him yet. The old man jumped, dropping the candle he’d been using to light the lanterns. Due to the lack of snows the past week, last autumn’s leaves were dry, matted, and ready to catch. A pile on the edge of the path immediately took the flame.

Soren’s first thought was that he would be blamed for any damage the fire caused, which would certainly not work in his favor. His second thought was that he might be able to extinguish the fire with wind magic and prevent that from happening. Clenching the binding of his wind tome through the worn leather of the satchel, he uttered a simple spell and suffocated the flames with a wisp of air. Leaves and dirt blew into a tiny cyclone, but at least the fire disappeared.

The incantation was one he knew better than his own name, and he hadn’t needed to read it directly in order for it to work. Satisfied that he’d averted his own incrimination, Soren turned his attention back to the man, who was staring at Soren with a confused sort of gratitude. “Goodness, my child! Thank the Goddess for your quick thinking.”

Soren did not think Ashera had anything to do with it, but he didn’t say that aloud. He didn’t say anything, instead watching and waiting for the old man’s reaction. Judging by his simple white robes, he was some sort of priest, acolyte, or monk, and his reaction would be the first indication of whether or not Soren would be allowed to seek refuge here. 

With a tiny wheeze, he bent and picked up his candle. He had large blue eyes, beneath which sagged deep hammocks of wrinkles. These pushed down on his cheeks, forcing them to spill over the edge of his jaw like flows of magma. White hair shot straight out of his ears although there was not much left on his head or face. What remained of his eyebrows were two cluster of white whiskers that protruded from the points where his brow came together to make a curious expression. His small mouth was pressed into a closed-lipped smile, tucked between those igneous cheeks. “Tell me, what brings you to our modest shrine at this late hour?” he asked after a moment of mutual contemplation.

“Something to eat and a place to sleep,” Soren answered honestly.

The man bobbed his head with his eyes closed. “Come with me, and I will see you taken care of. Are you travelling alone?”

“Yes.”

The man bobbed his head again. “This way.” He started shuffling down the path, leaving half of the lanterns unlit. Soren followed, annoyed with his slow pace.

“My name is Belmephue,” the man introduced himself as they walked, “but please call my Belm. I am Head Priest here at Temple Asic.”

Soren was surprised at his luck. Stumbling upon the leader first certainly simplified matters. “My name is Soren,” he replied.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Soren,” Belm said warmly. “I see that you are a talented practitioner of the arcane arts for a boy so young. Please, tell me your story.”

Soren was prepared with the appropriate lies, but he knew that offering them too quickly and in too much of a well-rehearsed manner often made people suspicious. So he presented a reluctant exterior. “I am no one.”

“We are all someone, Soren,” the old priest chuckled. “We are all the children of our Great Mother.”

Soren did not reply. He would not feign faith for this man and end up having to act the part of a zealot the rest of the evening.

“Do you pray to the Goddess, dear child?” Belm asked as if the question were a baited hook.

But Soren imagined himself a clever fish that could take the bait without being caught. “Not recently,” he answered.

Belm nodded as if this were acceptable. “I would like you to pray with me later, Soren. It would make me very happy.”

“Okay,” Soren agreed after a moment’s pause, careful to seem neither enthusiastic nor reluctant.

The path soon forked, and Soren could see the shadowy walls and lit windows of buildings ahead. Belm led them on the rightmost path, and when it divided again, he did the same. This brought them to a modest building that was more likely the clergy’s living quarters than the compound’s main hall of worship. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and Soren hoped that meant there was hot food inside.

Belm pushed open the door and gestured that Soren should enter first. He was more than willing to oblige and found the interior was sparsely decorated but cozy with warmth. There were six narrow beds lined three to a wall, and on the other end of the room was a fireplace around which stood a few straight-backed chairs. Next to the fireplace was an archway leading to another room, in which Soren could see the outlines of a few desks and what was probably a shelf of books and scrolls. 

By the fire were two terse-looking women with tightly braided hair wearing simple white smocks. One was poking the smoldering logs with a stick while the other read a book in one of the chairs. The two women looked incredibly similar, and Soren wondered if they were twins. Their age was hard to determine, but he guessed they were both at least forty. Another old man was sleeping on one of the beds. He was shrunken to almost nothing with age, and yet his shriveled form released impressively loud, rumbling snores.

When Belm closed the door, the women gave them their attention but said nothing. They stared, their eyes questioning.

“Sister Eliza, Sister Maren, this young boy has just saved me from starting a fire in Ashera’s shrine with my own carelessness. His name is Soren. Please let him join you by the fire.” The two women nodded, and the seated one patted the chair next to her. Soren sat and worked his numb hands in the glow. Meanwhile, Belm continued his introduction: “Soren is a mage you know,” he said to the sisters as if this somehow made him a special guest.

In response, they looked happy and intrigued, but they still said nothing.

Ben turned toward Soren to explain. “You will have to forgive them. Sisters Eliza and Maren are acolytes hoping to become priestesses. As part of their training, they have taken vows of silence for a year’s time. They will not be able to converse with you.”

The women nodded their greetings to punctuate his words. In return, Soren nodded his understanding.

“Over there we have the former Head Priest of this temple, Brother Oten.” He gestured at the snoring man. “Two more acolytes round out our little family, but Mr. Noah and Mr. Sean are both at prayer this hour.”

Soren nodded again, not inclined to make small talk. All he wanted was the meal Belm had promised, but before he could remind him of his offer, Belm seemed to remember on his own. “The kitchen is in a different building, and it is quite cold this time of night. I will not subject you to it,” he chuckled, “but I will return shortly. Sister Maren will take care of you until then.”

Maren nodded dutifully. Rising from her seat, she immediately began setting a kettle over the hearth.

“Eliza, I was not able to finish lighting the lanterns. Would you complete the task?”

Eliza mimicked her sister’s nod and immediately strode over to the door, where she donned a cloak and exited with Belm.

Left alone in the quiet room, Soren stared at Maren while she stared at him just as intently. He was no stranger to silence and even preferred it to meaningless prattle. When the water was done, Maren poured him a mug of bitter tea. It tasted medicinal, but Soren drank it anyway, hoping that it would at least be fortifying. When she was apparently done staring, Maren returned to her book. Minutes ticked by. The fire crackled. Oten snored.

Finally Belm reappeared. “ _Brrr_ ,” he shivered, shaking his jowls. Once he had removed his cloak and boots, he handed Soren an empty bowl and set about positioning a small pot over the fire. Into this he poured a savory broth from a pouch thrown over his shoulder. “Usually we do not allow cooking and eating in the sleeping quarters,” he explained while he spun the broth with a long-handled spoon, “But for a special guest, exceptions can be made.” Belm withdrew several strips of salted meat and some wrinkly tuber-looking things from a bag strung over his arm and tossed these into the pot as well. Finally he searched the sleeve of his robe until he found a hunk of bread, which he handed Soren along with another pouch of water. “Please.”

Soren did not hesitate to dig into the crust. He had learned the best method of eating bread without spilling (and therefore wasting) many crumbs, and it had become his habit to drink plenty of water between every bite to make his stomach feel fuller. When the soup was ready, Belm ladled it into Soren’s bowl and gave him and a deep-bellied spoon with which to drink it.

Eliza returned, bid Belm goodnight with a strange sort of salute, and then she knelt by her bed to say silent prayers. Maren, on the other hand, seemed content to watch Soren eat, balancing the book she’d been reading on her knee.

It had been a long time since Soren had last seen a book, so he leaned over slightly to steal a glance at the title. But there were no words on the outer binding for him to discern.

“Do you read?” Belm broke the silence. He must have noticed his interest.

“Yes,” Soren answered.

“Well of course, you are a mage,” Belm laughed. Noticing that Soren’s bowl was nearly empty, he poured in another ladleful. Soren continued to chew and sip. Flavor and texture did not mean much to him anymore, but it was hot, and there was something to be said for that.

“Where were you educated, if you do not mind the question?” Belm asked, taking one of the other seats and holding his gnarled hands to the hearth.

“In the south,” Soren half-lied. The man would surely assume southern Crimea before thinking he meant Gallia. “I was apprenticed to a wind sage.”

Belm looked appropriately impressed. “’Was’ apprenticed,” he observed, “Have you mastered the element already?”

“My master died,” he explained, staring at the fire and keeping the spoon moving from the bowl to his mouth.

Belm emitted a tiny, sympathetic gasp. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said with a nod, “But we all return to Ashera’s embrace, when it is our time.”

Soren lowered his gaze to the bowl and did not reply. Silence stretched between them. He would rather have eaten without making conversation or offering careful lies. But he knew the lull wouldn’t last.

After Belm tilted the pot and ladled the very last of the soup in to Soren’s bowl, he resumed his interrogation: “Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but I wonder if you are not a Spirit Charmer, to possess such talent for the arcane arts at such a tender age.”

Soren was rarely asked this question directly, but he didn’t let that trip him up. He turned to look Belm in the eye and lied easily: “Yes, I am.” 

The old priest was obviously pleased to hear this, and there was something dark, perhaps greedy, behind his jolly, wrinkle-ringed eyes. “I knew I had a good feeling about you. Maren, this boy lives under the Pact of Ashera’s Protection!” The acolyte’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands softly in appreciation. Soren knew that any attention could be dangerous, even if it was positive attention like this. He would have to proceed even more carefully.

“Tell me, what was it like to commune with the Goddess herself and receive her favor?”

Soren knew he needed to curb the man’s enthusiasm, and he quickly fashioned a lie. “I do not remember the ceremony,” he said, trying to seem a bit regretful. “My parents entered me into the pact when I was very young.”

“Ah, then you are a blessed child to be given such a gift.” Belm bobbed his head. “Are you traveling to see your parents now?”

“They died,” Soren lied vaguely, “years ago.”

Maren reached out a hand to stroke his arm consolingly, but this only made Soren lurch from the sudden touch. If there had been anything left in the bowl, it would have spilled. He quickly tried to control himself again, knowing that suspicious behavior like this could unravel his whole ruse.

Maren retracted her arm, and Belm tugged the bowl out of his hands. “If you have had your fill, I will set up a place for you to sleep tonight. “Maren, would you please retrieve the extra blankets and sleeping mat?”

The acolyte obeyed, slipping into the other room and taking her book with her.

Belm set about moving two of the chairs away from the wall near the hearth, and Soren stood up. “It is not much,” Belm apologized, “but it should at least be warm here next to the fire.”

A moment later, Maren returned with the bedding, and she and Belm laid it down. The sleeping mat was thicker and softer than any Soren had ever laid on before, and his eyelids felt heavy just looking at it.

After this, Maren made the same good-night gesture as Eliza and went over to her own bed, where she kneeled just like her sister. Belm, however, was lingering, patting down the top blanket. “Is there anything else you need, Soren?”

“No.” In truth, all he wanted now was to rest.

“We can discuss this more in the morning, but there is a proposition I would like you to sleep on, so to speak.”

Soren waited to hear more before showing a reaction.

Belm continued, “We are short-staffed this season with no new acolytes or novices coming to study, but if you would like to stay, we would be honored to have a Spirit Charmer live and pray among us. Here, let us share a prayer now.” He took Soren’s hands, and even though his mind rebelled against the touch, he did not pull away. The priest kneeled by Soren’s makeshift bed, forcing him to kneel as well. With Soren’s hands clasped in his, he closed his eyes and began chanting.

The first prayer was in the common tongue, and Belm asked for such things as patience to deal with hard times and the ability to treat other people with kindness. Soren hoped that would be the end of it, but then he launched into another prayer in the ancient language (which Soren hardly caught a word of) and then a final prayer in the common tongue. This one asked for Ashera to watch over and protect the weak and the poor throughout all of tonight. Soren wondered how Belm decided to set the boundaries for his prayers, but he did not taunt or tease him.

When it was finally over, Belm opened his eyes and smiled. “I certainly feel better. How do you feel?” Soren just shrugged noncommittally and was glad when Belm finally let go of his hands. “Sleep well, my child, and consider my offer. You are welcome here.”

Soren nestled down between the blanket and the sleeping mat and turned his back to the warm hearth. He was facing a corner, but if he looked up, he could see the cloudy night sky through the window pane. It was certainly the most comfortable place he’d had to sleep in recently weeks, and he couldn’t deny the temptation of the priest’s offer.

Despite his exhaustion, Soren remained awake long enough to consider the potential risks. Staying here for even a week would mean living a careful lie. If any of the temple’s clergy saw through his façade, he would be harshly cast out. But if that was the worst that could happen, then it was nothing he wasn’t used to.

Staying would undoubtedly require participating in the daily rituals of the temple, and that would be tedious. But there were worse fates than tediousness, and the work shouldn’t be too difficult. There was a chance the pilgrims and parishioners would make trouble for him, but that was a bridge he could cross when he came to it.

Finally Soren turned his mind to the fact that Belm had made the offer at all. Recalling the spark of coveting in his eye, Soren wondered why Belm wanted a Spirit Charmer installed at his temple. The peasants would not care one way or another, and Soren didn’t think he would make much of an exhibit for religious nobles. There was always the possibility he was a pedophile in clergy’s clothing, but in a well-trafficked temple like this, Soren reasoned that was unlikely. That left the likelihood that Belm truly believed the Spirit’s Protection brought a mage closer to the Goddess. If so, Soren could use that. All he needed to do was pass himself off as Spirit Charmer without allowing Belm to a cast him as a prophet or sideshow.

By the time he drifted off to sleep, Soren had come to the obvious decision: he would stay at Temple Asic. After all, he had no other prospects.


	8. CHAPTER 8: ARCANE ARTS

Soren stayed for a week, and finding the ruse not difficult to keep up, stayed for a month after that. Then came another month, and he could find no reason to leave. So he stayed, satisfied with having enough to eat and a place to sleep. He remembered well the months spent on his own, and he had no desire to return to that constant state of fear and desperation.

Belm and the others gave him daily chores around the compound, and they enlisted his help for special occasions ranging from festivals to fasts, weddings to funerals. Soren accepted most tasks assigned to him, but he refused to wear the robes of a novice, to stand at the altar during sermons, or to shake the hands of visitors and parishioners when they came and went. He refused to lead chants or prayers or to read lectures aloud from the holy texts.

Belm accepted these restrictions and eventually stopped asking him to devote himself to Ashera. But whenever he saw Soren reading one of the gospels, there was an eagerness in his big eyes that made Soren’s shoulders bunch. Regardless of Belm’s hopes for him, he was determined to read his way through both the little library in the clergy’s sleeping quarters and the larger library in the temple’s basement. While it was nothing compared to some of the grand libraries and archives founds in the cities of the world, it was certainly more than Soren had ever had access to before.

Nine months passed, and very little changed at the temple. Soren attended most of the sermons, lectures, and even some of the prayer circles that took place around Ashera’s statue. The content was not of interest to him, but he was bored and people were sometimes entertaining.

Old men fell asleep only to be nudged awake by their wives. Children went to great lengths to make bizarre faces and noises at each other without their parent’s noticing. Young men and women liked to show off to other young men and women. Some wished to prove how devout they were, while others wanted to show how wicked they could be. (There was a distinct subset of people who were clearly invested in seeing how many of Ashera’s doctrines they could violate on temple grounds.) Most people, however, seemed to enjoy the pageantry of a temple visit most of all. They never knew if they would encounter peers from another town or even noble visitors, and their eagerness could cause them to make fools of themselves. Soren enjoyed watching them flounder.

Most of all, however, Soren liked to watch people lie. They lied to their families, to their neighbors, to the clergy, to themselves, and even to the Goddess. Soren imagined he could improve his own subterfuge by observing it done poorly by so many people.

But then, in the early weeks of winter, someone started coming to the temple who did not behave like anyone else. She became the object of his scrutiny, as if instinct told him there was something to learn from her.

She was a child still, probably only a year or two older than him, and yet she stomped through the snow unchaperoned. Her visits were sporadic, but they averaged twice a week. She did not seem particularly interested in the sermons, but neither was she there to show off or do the things that others did. If anything, it seemed she came to observe people too.

He watched her steel gray eyes scan the crowd, and he read her expressions when she saw something amusing, disturbing, depressing, nauseating, intriguing, or endearing. He tried to guess what had just happened by the tiny movements of the muscles around her eyes and mouth.

He’d developed a rather decent ability to watch people without them noticing, but perhaps she sensed the frequency of his gaze, because she began looking back at him out of the corner of her eyes or even (when she must have been feeling bold) staring at him directly. However, she did not approach him, and Soren never approached her.

Or rather, she didn’t confront him during the first month of her visits. Then one day, she walked up to him after Sister Eliza’s lecture (her year of silence having ended not long after he’d arrived). The girl smiled familiarly and said, “I know you.”

It wasn’t the greeting Soren had anticipated, but he hid his surprise and stared back at her.

“Do you remember me?” she pushed, clasping her hands behind her back.

Soren frowned. Sometimes he did think the girl looked familiar, as if she were tugging at some memory. But now that he had spent eight separate days watching her closely, he couldn’t trust his own judgement on that matter.

“Would you like me to tell you,” she teased, “or do you want a hint so you can guess it on your own?”

“I have no interest in guessing games,” he replied icily.

The girl cocked her head. “You came to Crimea from Daein six years ago with an old man in a green cloak. I remember you because of this.” She touched her own forehead and stuck out her tongue in much the same way she had back then.

Soren felt an urge to squirm or make an excuse and leave. He always felt this way when someone mentioned his birthmark, but he refused to let this girl make him feel weak or scared. So he kept his feet in place and his hands still. “I remember you,” he replied. “You were like a little soldier doll, made up in the mimicry of a knight’s uniform.”

The girl laughed as if that were a humorous observation. “My name’s Koure,” she announced, lowering her hand so she could offer it to him.

Soren didn’t accept it, but Koure would not be refused. She took his elbow in one hand and forced him to grasp her other. “Like this,” she teased, giving his hand a couple firm shakes before releasing him. Soren didn’t appreciate being physically overpowered, but there wasn’t much he could do about it other than cross his arms and glare at her.

Koure did not seem affected. “You live here now, don’t you? Why’s that?”

Soren could ignore her, walk away, or avoid answering by redirecting the question. But after watching her all this time, he couldn’t deny he wanted to hear her story, and that would mean giving up parts of his own. “I had nowhere else to live,” he answered. “The man you saw me with that day, he was my master, but he died before I could complete my training.”

“You were learning wind magic, right? All wind mages in the army wear green, just like he did. Why don’t you wear green?”

Soren glanced down at the simple brown tunic he had taken from the temple’s donations. It had never occurred to him to try to pass himself off as a real wind mage, but the answer came easily to his lips: “I am not a soldier.” He shook his head. “And I believe I just told you, I was not able to finish my training.”

Koure shrugged. “When I was little I wanted to wear armor, even though I wasn’t a real knight.”

“How fortunate for you that you got what you wanted,” Soren returned, perhaps a little resentfully.

“Yup!” Koure did not seemed insulted. “My dad is a Royal Knight,” she announced proudly. “There was no one to take care of me when he was on patrol or when he was stationed somewhere, so I got to go with him. The other soldiers and knights helped look after me, and they taught me everything I know.”

“Your mother couldn’t be bothered?” Soren asked, although he wasn’t usually in the habit of asking about people’s relatives.

Koure shook her head and looked a little sad. “I’ve never met her, or my real father actually. I was adopted when I was just a tiny baby, so I don’t even have any memories of them.”

Soren could relate to that, but he did not volunteer this information. He did not feel compelled to befriend this girl. She’d clearly been raised by a loving parent, no matter her origins, so they didn’t really have anything in common at all.

“So what is that thing?” Koure asked, suddenly changing the subject and catching Soren off guard. She pointed to her forehead again.

Soren gave her his most irritated scowl. “It is called the Spirit’s Protection. It’s because I’m a mage.”

Koure didn’t seem convinced. “I don’t know; I got to meet a bunch of mages and sages in the army growing up, and none of them had any cool tattoos like that.”

Soren frowned. “It is not a tattoo.”

“Were you born with it?”

“No,” Soren answered quickly, not knowing if it was a lie or not. “Didn’t your knightly father ever tell you it’s rude to pick apart another person’s appearance?”

Koure looked immediately contrite. “Sorry,” she muttered, “I was just curious…”

“Where is your father anyway?” Soren stayed on the offensive. “Does he not have the time to chaperone his daughter to the temple?”

Koure’s shoulders sagged. “He’s still at the Daein border… He- he and I don’t get to stay with each other anymore. I have to live with his sister now.”

“The word for that is ‘aunt’,” Soren replied pertly, “and if your father has been in the Royal Knights for any length of time, that must mean he is part of a noble family. Surely living with his sister is nothing to complain about.”

Koure shook her head. “Dad doesn’t have any money or standing or anything, and Hilda has her hat shops, but not much land, and the land she does have is nowhere important. She has three daughters who’re all older than me, but only the oldest gets to go to a boarding school. And-”

“I get it,” Soren cut her off. “How unfortunate for you. Of course, I imagine your aunt is quite cruel to you, and your cousins are spiteful and wicked.”

Koure sighed. “They’re not that bad. Hilda lets me come to the temple instead of going to school, if I want. And they don’t really mind me as long as I stay out of the way. But I know she didn’t want dad to adopt me in the first place.”

“Why _do_ you come to the temple?” Soren asked, tired of talking about her family.

Koure brightened some. “To see interesting people!” she answered, as if that were obvious. “It’s better than lessons.” 

Soren thought back to the schooldays in Ike’s village. If given the choice, he would return to that life in an instant. The lessons had not always been stimulating, but Ike had been there (more often than not) and that had made every day entertaining.

Just then, Sister Maren appeared, tapping the door to announce herself. Soren and Koure were still loitering in the back of the empty temple, and they both turned to her. “A prayer group is coming in soon,” Maren whispered. “You two had best run along if you are not going to participate.” Although her vow of silence had expired around the same time as Eliza’s, she still tended to whisper and make her actions as quiet as possible.

Soren nodded, and Koure led the way out. She walked with her hands on her hips and she glanced at the sky as soon as they were outside. Soren stuffed his hands into his pockets and wished he’d worn his cloak. It was getting colder and colder every day. “It’s getting late,” Koure announced, apparently having read the position of the sun. “I should go or Hilda will think I’m getting into trouble.”

“Then go,” Soren dismissed her.

Koure grinned to the side. “Your ruder than me,” she said, “for the record.”

“What?” Soren replied flatly.

“Earlier you accused me of being rude, but you’re way worse.” She laughed at her own assessment. “But it’s okay, I don’t mind. You’re different, and that’s why I liked watching you. You were watching me too, I know. Do you think I’m interesting?”

Soren hesitated before answering, but eventually he said: “You are definitely unusual.”

Koure grinned as if that were a great compliment. “I’ll be back before the end of the week. Let’s talk again then.”

“I assume there is no avoiding it,” was Soren’s answer.

Koure laughed. “So aren’t you going to tell me your name before I go?”

“My name,” Soren repeated, realizing he hadn’t given it and she hadn’t asked.

“I can make one up for you if would prefer,” she offered, pulling on a pair of leather gloves from her pocket.

“Soren,” he said before she could assign him something ridiculous.

“I’m glad I found you again, Soren.” She waved over her shoulder.

Soren watched her disappear while parishioners filed into the temple’s vaulted interior. He felt an oddly familiar emotion, and after a couple moments, he realized it was the same feeling he used to have after encountering someone kind or generous. Whenever someone had given him food, water, a place to sleep—or even if they’d merely caught him trespassing or stealing and let him go without punishment—Soren had felt seen. And now again, he felt seen. It was not something he’d experienced when welcomed to the temple, although Belm and the others treated him well. A feeling of relief and hope accompanied this sensation, and once again Soren felt as if his counter of days had been reset. Time had begun anew, and there was chance tomorrow would not be like yesterday.

Koure arrived three days a week after that, and she always found him no matter if he was doing chores or attending services. Sometimes she helped him finish his task; other times she convinced him to put it off until later. When she pulled him away from a lecture or sermon, the speaker, whoever it was, would watch disapprovingly.

“Let’s go on an errand,” Koure said one day, and when Soren asked her what she meant she answered: “I know you go into town to run errands for the priests sometimes. Go ask Father Belm for a job, and let’s go!”

Soren didn’t know why he went along with her plans. But more often than not, he did whatever and went wherever she wanted. She was not particularly pushy or overbearing, but he could see no reason to choose one course of action over another, when neither would impede his survival. Koure was not a detriment to his life to the extent that Belm would send him away, so Soren merely bided his time and let her have her fun. For whatever reason, she seemed intent on befriending him, and Soren thought it was easier just to go along with it.

“Do you want to see something cool?” Koure whispered one day, glancing around conspiratorially

Soren shrugged indifferently.

She seized his hand and led him around the back of the temple, into a prayer garden hidden by evergreens. Snow was falling lightly, and no one was here. Koure didn’t let go of his hand until they were tucked behind a tree that barred the view from the temple’s window. “Get a load of this,” she said before immediately pulling a dagger from between the layers of her snow trousers and leggings. The handle was made of elegantly wrought silver, but the sheath was simple and unassuming.

“It’s real,” she promised, and her breath puffed in the cold air. She drew the blade and passed it to him with both hands. “My dad took it off an enemy commander when he was just a new recruit, and he got to keep it. He always said he’d give it to me when I was older.”

Soren returned the knife by the handle. Weaponry was of little interest to him, but the unexpected behavior of people was. “Why give it to you now?”

Koure shoved the blade back into her trousers. “His letter said he was missing me, so he wanted to send me something!”

“He could have sent you a toy or a dress,” Soren pointed out. “Heirlooms rarely arrive through the postal service.”

“What would _you_ know about heirlooms?” she returned, sticking out her tongue.

“I am merely pointing out that his behavior is suspicious,” Soren returned calmly, but this only seemed to irritate Koure.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she growled.

Soren shrugged, deciding to change the subject. “To most people, that blade is worth more as a trophy than a weapon. You should not let people see you with it or you’ll be robbed.”

Koure grinned to the side. “You nag too much, Soren. You sound like one of the sisters.”

“Don’t let them see you with it either,” was his reply.

This caused Koure to emit a snort of laughter. “Hey, do you know how to use that smelly old book?” she asked, glancing at his satchel. “I mean, you bring it everywhere.”

Soren frowned. “Of course I can use it.”

“Then we should fight each other!” she offered excitedly, and Soren was stunned, suddenly imagining Ike was standing before him. He took an involuntary step backward.

“What, are you scared?” Koure laughed, misreading his retreat.

Soren regained his composure and shook his head. “I am merely alarmed by such a ridiculous idea. Without protective gear, we could seriously hurt each other.”

“Oh well, then,” she sighed, giving up easily.

For the rest of the winter, Koure wore the knife under her clothes where no one could see it, but it was clearly a kind of talisman for her. Soren didn’t berate her for carrying it again. Her companionship was not unpleasant, and he found himself looking forward to her visits.

When spring finally came, Crimea started to grow lush once more. The early crops were already sprouting, and the priests preached about rebirth and renewal. The rains fell hard this year, and Soren and Koure often sought shelter in the prayer gazebo while they waited for a break in the deluge for her to run home.

In silence they sat and watched the rain fall in sheets off the roof. Koure kicked one leg and then the other under the dripping eaves until her boots were soaked. It seemed to Soren she was unsuccessfully trying to kick the falling water back into the sky. The gazebo had a clear view of Ashera’s statue, and the rain looked like tears on her stone face. Koure had been uncharacteristically quiet today, but Soren did not want to ask what was bothering her for fear he would be expected to provide consolation. Eventually she told him without having been asked: “I have to leave.” She didn’t break the rhythm of her kicking or remove her gaze from the downpour. 

“The rain will let up soon,” Soren replied, although he doubted that was what she meant.

“I mean the day after next.” She let out a long breath. “And I mean forever.”

“Okay,” Soren replied. He had known this day would come, and so he had already prepared himself for it. Koure was simply another person passing through his life, or perhaps he was merely passing through hers. Either way, their time as companions was over. There was no point imagining it continuing, but he still wanted to know the reason why. “Where are you going?”

“Hilda is sending me to an orphanage in the south. I am not going to live with her anymore.” Her voice was choked by tears she was wasn’t crying, but Soren wondered if she would start sobbing in a moment. He did not know if he should try to prevent it.

“Why now?” he asked instead.

“My dad-” her voice broke, “He’s dead now, so Hilda doesn’t owe him anything anymore.” Her feet fell still, and her eyes grew moist.

Soren observed her reaction to this loss, much as he had watched her when she’d first started coming here. He wondered why she hadn’t said something before now, instead of being silent and mopey all day. Was he supposed to have guessed what had happened? “How did he die?” he asked.

“Hilda said he’d been sick for a while, but he didn’t want me to see him like that. He didn’t want me to know.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve but still didn’t cry.

“As next of kin, your aunt should become your guardian.” Soren attempted to speak rationally. “Crimean law clearly states-”

“He never really made me his daughter,” she cut him off, her voice almost inaudible. “He never made it official. He just found me, and he kept me even though his family said they would never…” She sniffed and wiped her nose again. “Hilda’s all that’s left, and she hasn’t changed her mind about me. She thinks…” She shook her head. “I’m going to the orphanage in a couple days. I wanted to let you know I probably won’t ever come back here.”

Soren thought for a moment before responding. “You will be taken care of at the orphanage,” he finally said. “There are worst fates than that. Will you be escorted south?” His tone was objective, which was probably not right for this situation, but he didn’t know how to console her other than to point out the advantages of her situation.

She finally turned to face him, and the squint of her eyes was hurt and confused. “…A, uh, a carriage is coming to take me away,” she answered disjointedly.

“That is good. You will not have to walk, and you needn’t fear bandits or inclement weather on the road.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Her mouth peeled into a grimace. “My dad is dead, and I have to leave my only real friend…” A sob rolled over her voice like a wave, and in the aftershock, the first tear spilled over the ridge of her right eye, followed quickly by a second in the left. 

“You cannot mean me.” He resisted the urge to squirm in discomfort. Even if he did consider her a friend—as he had Ike before her—hearing it aloud felt like an accusation. He never behaved like a friend was supposed to, and he was certainly failing in that regard now. He never knew what to say.

“I _do_ mean you,” Koure shook her head, shaking free another pair of tears. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Soren simply nodded, not trusting his words.

“Then, even if I have to go away, we will still be friends, right? Tell me it’s going to be okay.” She wiped her eyes and nose with opposite wrists.

“I cannot promise that,” Soren answered honestly. When he saw that this did nothing to appease her, he added: “But I can predict that you’ll do well wherever you end up. You are observant and adaptable.”

“Thanks, Soren.” A weak attempt at a smile flickered across her mouth, and with a sniff, her tears stopped running. The rain, too, was lightening now, and she moved her eyes to the low, hazy sky. “I should go back.”

“Will you come again tomorrow?” He didn’t know why he felt hopeful that she would. After all, a second farewell may mean more tears he didn’t know how to deal with.

Koure slid under the gazebo’s railing and dropped to her feet in the mud. “Yes, I want to say a real goodbye.” She pulled her hood up against the sprinkling rain and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “And there’s something I want to tell you before I have to leave.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to tell me now?” he asked, feeling as if he were being baited.

Koure shook her head, causing her curls to fall out of the hood and across her forehead. “Tomorrow,” she insisted before turning and walking away.

Soren did not pester her to give him a clue or stay longer. In truth, he expected all she wanted to say was some heartfelt confession of friendship, and as far as he was concerned, that had already been achieved. There was nothing left to say, and yet Soren was glad he would be able to see her one last time.

He was wrong, however, and Koure did not appear the next day or any day after that. For a while, he wondered if she’d lied about returning or if she’d somehow been prevented from coming. Either way, he knew she was long gone, and he reasoned that the best course of action would be to stop thinking about the matter and simply let her become a memory.

Maren and Eliza noticed Koure’s absence and asked Soren about it. Their tones were sympathetic, as though they anticipated he might be mourning her loss. But Soren answered their questions with his understanding of the facts. He assured them he did not need their sympathy, and neither Koure nor her dead father needed their prayers.

Without his companion, the temple became even duller than usual. Soren continued to do chores on the temple grounds and run errands in the surrounding towns. He explored as far as he could but always return to the temple to eat and sleep. He continued to watch the people, but there was no one for him to share his observations with anymore. Because of this, the people seemed less interesting.

He began practicing wind magic regularly, although he knew he would quickly exhaust his tome if he continued. Without spells, he would be defenseless, and he certainly wouldn’t be much of a mage. But he needed something to occupy his mind.

When the priests or acolytes found him chanting spells at a target in the garden, they praised him for his diligence and skill. Belm was especially proud, saying, “That’s the Spirit Charmer we know. Let Ashera guide your voice, my child.”

After a while, this encouragement gave Soren an idea. “I would like to resume my study of magic,” he announced one day. “Would you write a letter of introduction that I might present at a mage’s academy?”

Belm’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “Of course,” he answered, “But I will do more for you if I can. Please, let me write to an old associate of mine—a priest and sage of light magic who currently teaches in Melior.”

Eliza clapped her hands together. “Soren, you would bring honor to our little shrine.”

If taken on as an apprentice or allowed to study at a magic school, Soren would certainly never return here. But he did not tell Eliza this. It was better to let these people believe that his success would somehow reflect on their own. In truth, he was excited that Belm had replied so quickly and so favorably to his request.

Two weeks later, Belm pulled Soren aside to show him the sage’s return letter. “He and his colleagues would be proud to accept a young Spirit Charmer at their academy,” he beamed, “Free of tuition of course.”

“Is that true?” Soren could hardly believe his ears, and the fact that he was not actually a Spirit Charmer seemed a minor inconvenience at this point.

“You are invited to apply when you are thirteen years of age, at which time you will be enrolled with the youngest class.” Belm made this announcement as if it were splendid news, but Soren’s heart fell. He hadn’t lied about his age when he’d come here, so Belm knew that he was only eleven now. Another year and a half would have to pass before Soren could leave this place. “Shall I write him back, telling him you are counting the days?”

Soren merely nodded. He would not pretend to be happy or grateful for Belm’s sake. He was disappointed, and he saw no reason to hide it. Belm easily noticed.

“Do not fret, my child. I am sure your thirteenth year will be here before you know it. And of course, you are welcome to stay with us until then.”

Soren nodded again, but his chin hitched halfway through the gesture. He realized he should be using this situation to his advantage. “I should spend my time practicing,” he noted. “But I will need a new wind tome.”

Belm seemed to consider this. “Spell books do not come cheaply,” he finally answered. “But I will ask for donations, and perhaps we could write to our sister shrines.”

Soren’s mood brightened. This arrangement would not be a total loss.

Autumn came, and the common folk celebrated the harvest with a festival at Temple Asic. They made gifts of salted meat, ripe vegetables, jarred grains, freshly ground flour, and sweet fruit preserves. The temple’s store room and kitchen were now stocked full. Soren would not go hungry here, and that was reason enough to stay.

The snows came, and soon the hills surrounding the temple were blanketed in white. There were fewer chores to do in the winter, and Soren was more bored than ever. The temple started to feel like a prison, and Soren found himself missing Koure again, who had begun appearing this time last year. But he quickly squashed these feelings, knowing that they were a vulnerability.

The spring was a bad one, fraught with cold snaps that sucked the life out of old and young livestock alike. The ground was impenetrable to the plow, so the season’s early crops were delayed. Ice storms brought trees down on houses, barns, and roads, and the freezing rains made the ground slick. People slipped and were injured. Some even died, and the living cursed whatever they could think to curse.

Most of the locals didn’t bother making the dangerous trek to the temple, but those who did were the ones who prayed most fervently for the goddess to bless them with warmer nights and milder rains. A radical sect of nonbelievers moved into the region, trying to sell their new religion and disprove the existence of Ashera to the anguished commoners. This made Belm anxious, even if the radicals never showed their faces on the temple grounds.

Soren listened to rumors about these animists, who believed in the power of spirits over the mother goddess. They appeared to be crazed, antisocial, tree-hugging zealots, but they were the only interesting thing to happen around here in months. Apparently some of the radicals were even mages, so Soren asked about them whenever he ran errands in town. But he never saw any of the sect, and none of the people he spoke to knew much about them. He was forced to conclude the rumors outshone the newcomers themselves. 

Eventually the days began to warm, and the hard spring came to an end. The countryside burst into life, and everyone soon forgot the trials of the early planting. The Crimean summer promised to be as beautiful as ever. The local farmers pulled fat beets and carrots from the earth, seized the hearts of broccoli and cauliflower from their radiating fronds, and plucked plump strawberries from the shade of their leaves. The rumors of the animists were soon forgotten, even by Soren, who stole into the strawberry fields no one bothered to guard and ate his fill of the plentiful red fruit.

But he remembered the animists again when he saw the smoke rising between the hills. He asked himself if Temple Asic had enemies, and the radicals were the only ones who came to mind. His feet pulled him toward the temple road, his half-complete errand now irrelevant. He wasn’t the only one to notice the dark cloud rising, and people started running past him. Some shouted to one another—discordant orders about rousing the fire brigade.

When he neared the temple gate, Soren finally ran, but he stopped when the heat of the flames streaked the air in front of him. The gardens and groves were all aflame, and in the distance, he thought he could see Ashera’s stone head observing the billowing smoke and licking flames with her usual imperious expression.

The townsfolk who’d arrived ahead of them had already joined those who’d escaped the fire. Amidst coughs, shouts, and demands to know what had happened, the people formed a line to the nearest stream. They passed buckets hand-to-hand, although there was obviously no saving the temple now. The survivors made jumbled claims about people with axes and torches, but one thing was clear among all their stories: there had been a fire mage.

Rather than joining the line, Soren circled around until he had a better view of the temple’s main building. The spire fell before his eyes, and he didn’t even hear it hit the roof over the roar of the flames that surged to devour the additional fuel. The stained-glass windows were all shattered. The garden of evergreens where Soren and Koure used to hide now contained only the black skeletons of trees, wreathed in red flame, gushing dark gray smoke.

Soren kept moving until he reached higher ground. From this vantage point he could see the outhouses, the kitchen and pantry, and the priest’s sleeping quarters all burning. Again he moved, and here he saw the guest dormitories, the prayer gazebo, and the stable all aflame. Only Ashera’s statue and the stone lanterns were unaffected. They stoically withstood the inferno, merely blackened with ash.

Careful of the wind blowing smoke into his eyes, Soren shielded his face and kept moving. He squinted against the brightness of the fire and looked for bodies. He thought he saw them, their clothes nothing but thin rags waving in the heat, their limbs burned thin as broomsticks. But he could not be sure of what he was seeing.

Eventually he turned his back to the blaze and walked away. His wind magic was useless against a fire like this, and his weak arms would make little difference in the bucket line. So he watched peasants from the surrounding towns work together to contain the fire.

After two hours, the sky opened up, and rain did what the mortal men and women could not. Combining their efforts, the humans and the downpour eradicated the last of the flames, leaving only the charred remnants of what had once been Temple Asic. Soren stayed away from the people, for fear of somehow being blamed for this disaster, but he lingered long enough to determine that none of the priests or acolytes had survived.

Then he moved back toward the town where he’d been buying medicine to treat Brother Oten’s bunions only a couple hours ago. Squatting in the back of a barn, drenched with rainwater, Soren opened his satchel and took stock of what he had left to his name: two small wind tomes, a few coins, a small water bladder, the remains of the lunch Maren had sent with him, and a small bag containing a bunion poultice. It was not ideal.

He considered stealing back to the temple after nightfall to search the ruins for valuables, but he imagined militia from town would already be guarding it from bandits and other scavengers. He didn’t want to imagine what they’d do if they found him skulking around.

Evening fell, and Soren left the barn to walk around town and listen to the gossip. It quickly became clear that the townsfolk had leapt to the same conclusion he’d come to: the animists were to blame. A search party had already been sent to round them up.

Soren didn’t have to wait long for the party to return, dragging their quarry with chains and ropes. The animists shouted their confusion and claimed their innocence to anyone who would make eye contact, and Soren wondered if they were telling the truth. This was the first time he’d seen any of them, and they struck him as an odd combination of scholars and wild men, but not murderers.

The militia marched the animists to the temple ruins, which were cast in starlight broken only by shreds of the passing raincloud. The town emptied to follow them, and Soren let himself be swept up by the jeering horde.

Pyres were swiftly assembled from the burnt wood, and the animists who had not yet been beaten unconscious screamed and begged for their lives. People shouted for blood and sang joyous prayers. Separating from the crowd, Soren used this distraction as a chance to investigate the ruins himself.

First, he went to the main temple and looked for the silver candlesticks, the holy chalice, and the box containing the day’s donations. Finding none of these things, Soren proceeded to the pantry and searched the cellar for whatever food may have survived. But it seemed the place had been picked clean even before the fire had touched it. Soren collected what little was left.

Next, he searched whatever bodies he could find, although he was reluctant to do it. Memories of Greil’s massacre came to mind even though these corpses looked entirely different. Those had been a fresh, wet mess of red blood, but these were shriveled, blackened, and hardly recognizable. Checking the shreds of their clothes, he found no coins or anything of value. It was difficult to tell, but Soren thought their pockets had been cut. Any purses or bags they may have carried appeared to be missing.

Finally, Soren followed what he thought was a trail of hoofprints leading toward the western gate and out of the temple grounds. But again it was hard to be certain of anything in the dark. There was no sign of anyone here, or in the distance where the road curved around one of the surrounding hills. If bandits had ransacked this place, they were long gone.

Returning to the crowd of bellowing townsfolk, Soren saw that the animists were already burning and nearly all dead on their pyres. A hollow, whimpering moan came from the blackened lips of the last one, but he soon died as well. Someone was trying to take control of the crowd and lead them in one of the most popular prayers about divine justice. The people around him joined in, and some of the older folk sang the verses in the ancient tongue, puffing out their chests and clearly proud to show they knew the more difficult version. Others simply raised their hands to the sky and hummed with their eyes closed.

Soren could hardly believe their joy at having killed innocents without even bothering to investigate for themselves. Although the nonbelievers had also jumped into his mind at first, his brief investigation now suggested roving bandits were responsible. But no one else had been out there with him searching the ruins; no one else had bothered to look with their own eyes. They hadn’t even taken a moment to find the bodies of the priests they were claiming to avenge. Soren shook his head at the blindness of it all.

Then, afraid that he too would be stuck on a pyre if he stayed any longer, Soren returned to the barn he’d vacated not long ago. He would stay out of sight and rest for a few hours. When the townsfolk finally settled down, he would steal what he could and be gone before daylight.


	9. CHAPTER 9: ALONE

Soren traveled north, following road signs to Melior. He begged and sought work along the way, but for the most part, he subsisted by stealing what he needed. He was not greedy and only took what he thought he could get away with. He moved under the cover of darkness, and his ears and eyes were always peeled for any sign of other people.

More often than not, the ones he needed to watch out for were not the peasants he stole from nor the soldiers who could arrest him, but the thieves and ruffians who shifted about in the same twilit hours. These predators were bigger than him, and far more dangerous. Soren stayed away, for fear of becoming prey himself.

As he neared Melior, the towns grew more populous and the people more literate. Leaflets were passed with news of the kingdom, and criers stood at the steps of townhalls, at the corners of markets, or at the entrances to shrines to clearly annunciate the national goings-on at the top of their lungs. One phrase was repeated constantly: “civil unrest,” and Soren swiftly learned what state the country was in.

Crimea’s oldest families—the nation’s most powerful lords and nobles—resented King Ramon and his outlandish policies. He wished to make an alliance with Gallia and had decreed that killing a subhuman was a crime equal to killing a human. He even expressed a desire to make reparations to Gallia for his nations’ century of slaveholding, back when Crimea had still been part of the Begnion Empire, and the subsequent two hundred years that Crimeans had continued enriching themselves in the slave-catching, -selling, and -brokering business.

Furthermore, Ramon had opened the Royal Knights to commoners, and he had invited peasants to spectate on court hearings for the first time in generations. He had overturned the tax code and funneled money away from the regional lords toward the central crown. It was no wonder they wanted him dethroned (even if they could never call for such a thing aloud). 

These nobles amassed their militias, preened their soldiers, and kept the Royal Knights stationed on their lands busy as a show of force. They kept these blades close to their mansions, their families, and their wealth. They did nothing to combat the rising crime rates in their lands, nor stop the roving gangs of brigands who were gaining confidence as they crisscrossed the countryside, picking on the poor like crows on a meaty carcass.

The rich had their own prerogatives, and Soren knew these things had little to nothing to do with his own survival. And yet he listened closely to the criers, and he read every scrap of news he could get his hands on. If information was being freely distributed, he could not resist feasting his eyes and ears on the words. It gave him something to think about, other than his constant hunger and weariness.

When he finally reached Melior, it was midsummer. Soren was instantly overwhelmed by the heat, the sounds, the motion, and the crush of people going this way and that. On instinct, he kept to the buildings’ shadowy eaves and crawled through alleyways instead of walking down the bustling streets. The city was enormous, and Soren tried to make a mental map of its districts while he explored, all the while looking for water, scraps of food, and potential work.

Toward the end of the day, he reached a lush field in the northeastern part of the city, which surrounded Castle Crimea like a vast green moat. Families picnicked, soldiers trained, horsemen exercised their steeds, and young men and women of noble stature walked in circles with their arms intertwined. Above the park stretched the castle’s white stone walls, fitted with pennants that rolled in the gentle breeze. Beyond the walls, Soren could see the roof of the royal library, the tower of the royal temple, and of course the many tiers of the palace itself.

When he had grown tired of staring at the political epicenter of the country, Soren turned away and set out for his true destination: the magic academy where Belm’s friend taught. He was not yet thirteen and he had no letter of introduction, but if there was any chance the school would take him, he had to try. He wanted more from life than merely surviving on the outskirts of civilization; he knew he could be more.

“Begone, vagrant,” said a plump older woman wearing the red robes of a fire sage. Her gray curls bounded around her shoulders as she gestured for him to leave with both hands. “Darken someone else’s doorstop. This is a reputable establishment!”

Soren did not retreat, and he straightened his spine even though he knew it did little for his overall stature. He had tried to clean up before presenting himself at the academy, but he knew his clothes were filthy and ragged after weeks of travel. “I know precisely what kind of establishment this is,” he replied calmly. “I have come from Temple Asic at the behest of Father Belmephue. I am a practitioner of wind magic and marked with the Spirit’s Protection. I am to become a student at this school. Retrieve the light sage Edwin Patris who instructs here; he will vouch for me.”

Soren’s eloquent speech clearly took the woman by surprise, and she stared at him uncertainly. “It is not the season for taking new students, and you are clearly too young.” Despite her protestations, she didn’t close the door in his face.

“Due to certain circumstances, I have been forced to make the trip north sooner than was previously planned. However, I assure you I am of-age and prepared to learn. Where is Sage Patris?” Soren didn’t know what Belm had said in his original letter and hoped lying about his age would be enough.

Finally the fire sage pushed the door fully open and stepped out of the way. She glanced around the street as if embarrassed to be letting him inside. But this was one of the city’s more affluent districts, and the avenue was relatively empty. “Hurry in then, but do _not_ touch anything.” Soren stepped into the foyer and let his gaze roam the elegant furnishings and bronze-framed paintings on the wall. “This way.”

They passed through the foyer into what appeared to be a servants’ corridor, and from here she took him to a small, secluded patio with a table and few chairs. The patio was sunny, and the flowers surrounding it buzzed with bees. He knew she was keeping him out of sight in case he truly was a vagrant.

“Stay here,” she instructed hesitantly before returning to the building.

Soren obeyed, sitting in one of the chairs. Even though everything had gone according to plan so far, he was starting to become nervous.

Not long after the fire sage disappeared, a young woman in the simple robes of a servant appeared bearing a tray of water and fruit. She did not say anything, but after placing the tray on the table, she stood beside the door as if on guard.

Soren was not shy about drinking the water and eating the fruit, and only stems, seeds, and rinds were left by the time the fire sage returned with an equally elderly light sage in tow. The man had long white hair tied in a ponytail at the base of his neck and a long beard that lay flat against his chest. He was thin and leaned slightly like a tree growing in the wind. His robes were pure white embroidered with gold, and Soren had to assume this was Belm’s friend: Edwin Patris.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Soren.” He stood respectfully. “The Head Priest of Temple Asic told you I would be coming.”

“Belmephue is dead,” came Patris’s quick retort. “I heard news of the fire.”

The fire sage looked surprised to hear this, and she now glared at Soren with open distrust.

“Yes, he is dead,” Soren agreed, “But I am not, and therefore I am here.”

Patris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “In his letter, Belmephue said you were a Spirit Charmer.”

“I am.” Soren tried his best to sell the lie with a clear, confident voice.

Patris stepped suddenly forward, and Soren had to tense his entire body to stop himself from backing away. Instinct told him the old man was about to strike him, but logic told him he would not.

Sure enough, Patris did not hurt him. He merely raised a hand to Soren’s forehead and used his other to raise his chin, lifting the mark into direct sunlight. Soren remained still, resisting the urge to pull away from the cold hands and analytical touch.

The sage examined the birthmark and whispered a few sentences in the ancient language. Soren didn’t understand any of the words. When this was done, Patris stepped back and released his face. His expression did not inspire hope in Soren, who had the distinct feeling his lie was falling apart.

“Well, is it the Spirit’s Protection?” the fire sage prodded nervously.

“One moment, Deborah,” Patris hushed her. “Conduct a wind a spell, if you have any claim to power.”

Soren pulled out the less pathetic-looking of his two small wind tomes the priests had collected for him months ago. Both were worn with age and neglect, but at least this one still had a semblance of its original binding. Turning to a perfectly pruned shrubbery rising from the garden like a tombstone, Soren prepared to cut it down to half its size. “*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me!*”

The gusts flew toward the egg-shaped hedge and ripped into it in a flurry of leaves and twigs. When they finally settled, a third had been cut off the top. A bit of the gnarled trunk still protruded at the center, and it momentarily reminded Soren of one of the bodies he’d seen after Greil’s massacre. The person had been decapitated, and a bit of their spine had still protruded from the neck. Squashing the memory as he always did when they snuck on him like this, Soren closed his tome, tried not to look nauseous, and turned to Patris for judgement.

He did not seem impressed. In fact, he looked disgusted. “Get that Branded out of here, Deborah!” he said, averting his eyes as if he couldn’t stand to look at him a moment longer. “He is no Spirit Charmer.”

The fire sage—Deborah—gasped as if this were some sort of shock, but at the same time, the corners of her mouth turned up in satisfaction. “I knew it!”

Soren felt his body flush hot in anger and embarrassment. “I am not a filthy Branded!” he returned.

Patris was already leaving, and he gestured that the servant should come with him. He held out one arm as if protecting her from having look at or be seen by Soren. The servant ducked her head and allowed the sage to escort her.

“You heard him. Get out,” Deborah said, pointing toward the servant’s entrance.

“I am a wind mage,” Soren pushed indignantly. “I came to learn.”

“Move!” With a couple words of the ancient language, she cast a small plume of fire at the flagstones next to his feet.

On reflex—much as he had done the first night at Temple Asic—Soren uttered a few words to extinguish the flames. However, this must have insulted Deborah, because not a second later she stepped forward and slapped him full across the face.

Taken by surprise, Soren fell to the side, catching himself on one knee and skinning his palm on the uneven edge of one of the patio stones. “Get. Out.” Deborah hissed, wiping her hand on her robes.

Soren didn’t argue this time. He walked out the way they’d come, with the fire sage close behind. When they reached the front door, Deborah shoved him for good measure. Soren stumbled but didn’t fall because he had expected some sort of final push or kick. He assumed the only reason she was ejecting him at the same entrance she’d accepted him was just in case any neighbors or townspeople were watching. Surely it promoted the exclusivity and therefore prestige of the academy for a dirty child to be tossed into the street every once in a while.

Soren thought about this as he walked away, because it was easier than thinking about the real reason he’d been rejected. Apparently, for those well-educated in the ways of magic, it was a simple task to determine if a person was a Spirit Charmer or not—and Soren was not. Of course, he’d always known, and yet he had been telling the lie for so long he’d almost started to believe it.

Having come all the way to the capital, Soren stayed in the city a few more weeks. He did whatever work he could find, and this included running messages. Although Soren was new to the area, he’d developed a much better sense of direction than he’d had back in Gallia. Now it served him well as he quickly learned all the main roads and most of the shortcuts. He was small and quick, and he didn’t ask questions.

Before long, he was delivering messages for members of the city gangs. When he learned it was dangerous to work for more than one gang at a time, he sold his services exclusively to one he judged not too big nor too small (and therefore the safest bet). After a while, one of the cutthroats discovered Soren could read and write, and he began working as a scribe as well as a delivery boy. Then, when he had the audacity to suggest a new way to code the gang’s messages using numbers, he was quizzed on arithmetic until becoming suddenly employed as one of their minor accountants. This meant hiding in a basement with four other accountants under constant guard all day, compiling receipts of the gang’s spoils and reconciling expenses for weapons, armor, booze, prostitutes, bribes, spies, and so on. He was never allowed to see, let alone touch, the actual funds he was supposedly counting.

Of course, Soren knew this was a dangerous occupation he’d fallen into, but he was glad to make a bit of coin and have a place to sleep each night. He did fear he would never be able to leave the gang he suddenly found himself part of, but he tried not to think about that for now. He tried not to think about anything. He simply ran his numbers.

Unfortunately for Soren, his talent for arithmetic was not enough to earn him peace. These thieves, murderers, and generally depraved individuals did not care about Soren’s birthmark or where he’d come from. They were not the kind to judge. However, it seemed their jobs were failing, their profits were shrinking, and they were losing more recruits to their competitors ever since Soren had shown up.

He highly doubted the gang’s misfortune had anything to do with him, but the leader was looking for someone to blame in order to improve morale. “The weird kid’s cursed us,” announced the middle-aged blond woman with an eyepatch and a face full of scars. It was the first time Soren had actually seen the gang’s leader. With a flippant wave of her hand, she ordered her men: “Bleed him a bit to hallow the ground, then turn him loose. Move the rest of the money boys to the new location. I want it done by this afternoon.” Then she left, without even looking at him.

Soren did not call her back or try to argue his case. His new concern were the two guards advancing on him with knives in hand. Two other guards led the rest of the accountants out of the basement. Soren watched them over the shoulders of his assailants, knowing there was no reason to expect any of them to speak in his defense. They had worked alongside each other for a few weeks. That was all.

Despite his efforts to fight back with magic, Soren was left cut and bruised in the basement of the abandoned building with the pages of his wind tomes strewn around him. Fighting had been futile, and while he dragged himself into a kneeling position, he wondered if the guards would have gone easier on him if he hadn’t resisted at all.

Collecting his pages, Soren tried to fit them back into their bindings. Then he crawled out of the basement and made himself scarce before a scout from a rival gang could come investigate and perhaps interrogate him about the blond woman’s business.

Once he reasoned he was far enough away from her turf, he cleaned and dressed his wounds with whatever he could find. He spent the night in someone’s coal shed, and when he emerged in the morning, aching from head to toe, he decided it was time to leave Melior.

Soren travelled north through the rest of the summer and early autumn, eventually reaching the coast. Moving from one port to the next looking for work, he soon discovered that tattooing was far more common among seafaring folk, and so most people didn’t look twice at his birthmark. Working orphans were also more common here, and people were used to accommodating children and teenagers whose parents had died at sea. It was an odd relief to be treated only as a vagrant rather than a vagrant and a demon, and it was easier to find people who would give him a job.

He did piecemeal work in exchange for a couple coins, a bit of food, or a place to spend the night. Some people couldn’t spare a coin but would give him old clothes instead. One merchant gave him a pair of boots that were not quite water-tight anymore. A shipbuilder gave him a pair of gloves with a hole at the end of one finger. And an elderly fisherwoman gave him a warm, water-wicking cloak that had once belonged to her son. It protected Soren from the cold autumn rains blowing in from the sea, and for that he was grateful. 

Winter was coming, but Soren did not think the weather could become much worse than the freezing sleet he’d already learned to survive. He had nowhere else to go, so even while others migrated south, he remained.

“What’re you still doin’ere?” asked a woman bound in shawls. She was using a broom to beat a rug she’d draped out of a window. A week ago she’d given Soren work, so he had come back, looking for more.

“I could do that for you,” Soren offered in reply. “Or any other chores you would prefer not to do today.”

She stopped hitting the dusty rug and leaned on the broom as if it were a walking stick. Contemplating Soren, she said, “You should ‘ead south. Find work where it’s warmer, if you want to survive. Not much longer and the ice’ll set in. No more fishin’ or shippin’ after that. The seal ‘unters will eat well, but not the rest o’us. No work for reg’lar folk, let alone hard little workers like you.”

“Your concern has been noted,” Soren replied evenly. “But I am here today. Do you have work for me or not?” 

The woman shook her head and pulled her weight off the broom. “Finish this for me, and change the ‘ay for the pigs. You rem’ber where it is?”

Soren nodded and accepted the broomstick.

“I’m goin’ to the docks. I can feed you when I get back, but this’ll be the last time.”

Soren nodded.

“You ‘ead south after this, you ‘ear?”

Soren nodded again.

Apparently satisfied, the woman disappeared into her house long enough to pull on yet another shawl and grab her coin purse. Soren resumed the rug’s rhythmic beating, holding his breath against the cloud of dust and dirt.

The next day he heeded the woman’s advice and set his feet southward, leaving behind the frosted, salted land that had become an unexpected refuge. After two days begging at inns and waystations and catching rides on the carts of fishermen bringing their catch inland, Soren was stopped at a bridge and forced to turn out his pockets at knifepoint. He obeyed because he did not have a coin left to his name. The would-be thieves were disappointed to find he had nothing, and Soren continued on his way.

That was the first of many times Soren found himself being mugged on the roadside or in the back of buildings where he curled up to find shelter. No matter if his mugger was working alone or serving a larger band, they were always desperate for coin. Many of them looked sick, and some were nursing infected wounds. Some looked scared, other starved, and most held the knife with shaking hands. Sometimes the weapon was a real dagger used for combat, but more often than not, it was a well-worn hunting knife, a kitchen blade, or a butcher’s carving knife.

Soren grew used to these altercations, and he never had anything worth stealing. Whenever he managed to earn a few copper coins, or even a silver piece, he always spent it immediately to fill his stomach or rent a place indoors to weather the next storm. After forcing him to turn out his pockets and open his satchel, the thieves would usually let him go. Sometimes they would try to hit him out of frustration, but Soren would dodge the blow and run away. On a few occasions he had to defend himself with wind magic.

When he was too tired or dizzy from hunger to avoid the initial blow, he would stumble along with a couple new bruises, soon forgetting how he’d gotten them. The days ran together, and Soren did not care what happened as long as he stayed alive.

He could not hold these criminals’ actions against them, because Soren was no law-abiding citizen himself. If he’d had the stature and a suitable weapon, perhaps he would have held up people on the roadside as well. But as things were, he did not, so he merely resorted to trespassing, squatting, and light burglary. His ability to break locks with wind magic served him well, and it was on this skill that he survived.

Winter was as harsh as ever, but Soren was not as afraid of losing fingers, toes, or his life to the cold as he’d once been. Rather than keeping himself sequestered in a single city, he kept moving, crossing through forests and snow-covered fields as needed. He could make a fire easily now, and he did not care who saw the smoke. If people chased him away, then he would run. If they set dogs after him, he would climb. If they cornered him, he would fight back with magic. His ability was not so advanced that he could seriously hurt anyone, even if he wanted to. But sometimes it was enough to turn a man, woman, or dog away cursing and howling.

Soren didn’t know if it was overconfidence or apathy that led him to take more chances as the winter months wore on. He began breaking into places in broad daylight as long as he judged there was no one around. He stole clothes and blankets off laundry lines as long as he thought he could escape before the washer noticed. He took eggs from chicken coops in the narrow margin between the hens laying them and the farmers’ children coming to collect them. And sometimes he stayed in a barn, shed, or carriage house past daybreak, risking being found when the owner began their daily chores.

Due to this carelessness, perhaps it was not surprising he was eventually caught by someone who he could not outrun, outsmart, scare with a wind spell, or otherwise evade. Men and women of the militia had begun carrying their standard-issue spears, swords, and axes with them during the day and sleeping with them at their bedsides at night. These precautions were surely meant to protect them from the marauders roaming the countryside, but they worked just as well against a tiny thief like Soren. Finding himself outnumbered and outmatched by adults carrying sharpened blades, he finally raised his arms in surrender.

After roughing him up a bit, they marched him several miles to the nearest army outpost and proudly turned him in. But when they discovered there were no bounties on his head, they were clearly disappointed and trudged through the snow back to their farms and mills.

Soren, meanwhile, was crammed into a cold cell with a dozen dirty adolescents of varying ages. The neighboring cells contained more mature criminals, some of whom jeered at the children. The soldiers did nothing to stop the cruel and lewd words dripping from the bandits’ lips, and Soren did his best to ignore them.

At night the temperature in dipped well below freezing, but the number of bodies around him kept him warm enough. Food was delivered regularly, although Soren had to fight his way to the front if he wanted to eat even a handful of it. At feeding times, the children clawed each other’s faces, pulled each other’s hair, and wrestled each other to the ground. But the rest of the time they were too tired and hungry to bother. Soren’s remaining wind tome had been confiscated, so he had nothing to fight with but his skinny arms and legs. His only advantage was that most of the other children were wary of his birthmark. He was no one’s first choice to touch, and that gave him an advantage in the daily struggle for food.

After a week here, the children were divided into two groups: those old enough to be transported to the city and imprisoned as adults and those young enough to be forgiven of their crimes and sent to an orphanage. For once in his life, Soren was grateful for his diminutive size. He was sent with the latter group despite the fact that another boy and girl his age were sent with the former.

He and six other children were squeezed into a carriage and sent south. The air was rank within the trundling box, and they were only allowed to stop and stretch their legs for a few minutes each day. His satchel and tome had been returned upon leaving the jail, so Soren used little spells to circulate the air in and out of the carriage windows. For this, most of the other children showed him respect. Or at least, he was allowed to sit nearest the window and benefit most from its paltry freshness.

Sturdy mules hauled their carriage through snow and ice, and the soldiers escorting them were exchanged every couple days. Sometimes they picked up another child or two at these stops, and by the time they arrived at the orphanage, there were ten of them in the cart. There was no longer space for everyone to sit, so they stood instead.

One little boy had been coughing when Soren had first met him in the cell they shared. His cough had grown worse and begun bringing up blood after the first couple days in the carriage. He died less than a week after that and never made it to the orphanage. None of the other children seemed to mourn him, and Soren was just glad there was one less person to share the stale air with. 

The orphanage lay in the countryside far to the south, and Soren spent much of his time in the carriage wondering if this was the one Koure had been sent to. The institution was called ‘the Home for the Lost Sons and Daughters of Crimea’—known simply as ‘the Home’ among the children in the carriage. Soren tried to remember if Koure had mentioned the name of the place her aunt had sent her, but he could not recall.

The children whispered to one another, saying this was known as the biggest orphanage in Crimea and debating whether that meant it was the best. The consensus was that, no, size did not correlate to fair treatment or pleasant amenities. Most of the children had been on their own for a while, and they’d heard rumors, both good and bad, about the Home. Soren tried not to give the rumors much heed, knowing that kids tended to let their imaginations run away with them.

A trio of severe-looking women led them from the carriage straight to a bathhouse, where the children were scrubbed mercilessly with hot water and soap. Their clothes and belongings were all taken to be cleaned or burned. The women (who reminded Soren of Eliza and Maren with their tightly pulled braids) seemed to be inspecting them for signs of illness or injury while they washed themselves, and Soren’s skin prickled under their gaze.

He hadn’t been able to enjoy the hot water and sweet-smelling lather for long before one of the women pointed to him and whispered to her colleagues. She promptly poured a bucket of cold water over his head to rinse him off. “You, come with me,” she ordered, leading him out of the bathhouse.

He had nothing but a towel to keep him warm in the brittle air. He walked through the snow, his bare feet becoming numb and his hair was quickly freezing. However, he did not have to endure the cold for long. The woman led him to the laundry room of the main building, which was relatively close to the bathhouse.

She pointed to the pile of clothes that had been dumped here. “You can’t stay. Dress yourself and begone.”

Soren glared at her, knowing all too well why he’d been singled out. But he asked anyway: “Why?”

“This facility is for the reconstitution of children. You are no child.”

Soren deepened his glare. “My dozen years on Tellius tell a different story,” he countered.

“You are a monster, and we will not let you spread your affliction to the innocents in our care. Now dress! It is Ashera’s mercy that we allow you that much.” With that, she threw open the door and walked back to the bathhouse.

Releasing the tension in his shoulders, Soren turned his gaze to the pile of clothes, shoes, and cloaks. First he found his satchel and the pages of spells inside. Then he set about dressing in the best clothes he could find. They were not the ones he’d worn here, but that didn’t matter. 

When he was tying up a pair of sturdy boots, he first noticed the eyes watching him from the door leading into the main house. “What do you want?” he asked the curious little faces.

There was a tiny yelp of surprise, following by laughter. The door creaked open, and three children came into view.

“You’re one of the new kids?” asked the one in front. She was probably his age or a year younger, and she had shoulder-length, purple hair that seemed to be covering a burn scar on the left side of her face.

“I’m just passing through,” Soren replied resignedly. He knew there would be no arguing his case or convincing them to let him stay.

The kids seemed disappointed. “Did you come with others?” the leader asked hopefully.

“There are nine in the bathhouse,” Soren answered. “Four girls and five boys.”

This seemed to cheer them up, and they exchanged excited glances. 

“Tell me, is there a girl named Koure who lives here?” he found himself asking. “Age thirteen, yellow hair, gray eyes. She would have arrived a year and a half ago.”

The three children exchanged whispers, apparently not recognizing the name or description. But then the youngest spoke up: “I ‘member her!” the little boy crowed. “She came the week after I got here, but she didn’t stay for long.”

“Why not?” Soren asked, feeling oddly disappointed that she wasn’t here, even if he wouldn’t have been able to stay with her anyway.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t ‘member ‘zactly. She just dis’peared, and none of the mothers would say where she’d gone. I ‘member I asked, ‘cause that girl was real nice to me.”

“You’re right,” the purple-haired one agreed. “I remember her now. You’re right: she was here, but then she wasn’t.”

Soren slung his satchel over his shoulder. “Very informative,” he sighed. “Now what are the odds you can steal me some food before I go?”

The kids exchanged glances. “Sorry,” the leader answered, “but the kitchen’s off-limits this time of day.”

Soren shook his head, knowing it had been a longshot.

Just then, the door opened, and the same woman came in, now steering another of the boys. Soren eyed the nasty, bumpy rash that spread over his chest and arms and assumed this was the reason he’d been separated.

“You’ll stay here until we decide what to do with you,” the woman was saying. But then she saw the three children standing in the doorway. “Out! Out!” she called, waving her arms. “You know better than to be here!” The kids immediately scampered off. “You will be going to bed without supper tonight, you trouble-makers!” she called after them. Soren edged toward the door, but that did not stop the woman from rounding on him next. “And what are _you_ still doing here? You’d better not have done anything to those three!”

“I didn’t touch them,” Soren growled back.

“Out of here!” she said, shooing him more ferociously than she had the other children. “I want you off this property this minute. We will not be so merciful if we see you here again!”

Soren opened the door to let himself out. “It’s not like I came here of my own will,” he snarled. His hair was still wet, but he pulled up the hood of his new cloak and marched through the snow. The carriage that had brought him here was gone, so he stepped onto the road and walked in the wheel tracks. If he remembered correctly, they had passed through a town only an hour or so back. Keeping a steady pace, he could reach it before nightfall.


	10. CHAPTER 10: MONSTER

The weather was marginally warmer this far south, but snow still fell and nights still froze. Soren kept moving, and before he realized it, his path eventually brought him back to the village he’d once shared with Ike and his family. Any sign of the massacre was long gone, but Soren imagined he still saw bloodstains on the cobblestones and the shadows of bodies in his peripheral vision.

Recently he’d been wearing a knit cap large enough to pull all the way down to his eyebrows, thus covering the offensive mark. Greil had told him not to hide it, and for a long time he hadn’t. But now life was simpler if he could avoid immediately repulsing everyone he spoke to. He approached people on the street, half-recognizing their faces and hoping they would not recognize him. He asked about a man named Greil and his two children who had moved away three years ago.

A few people remembered the man fondly, but none of them knew where he’d gone. Soren was oddly disappointed, even though he hadn’t expected anything better. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted this information. Did he hope Greil would take him in again? Did he dream of growing up as a brother to Ike? Did he fear Greil had gone berserk again? Did he simply want to know if Ike was still alive?

Afraid that he would be recognized if he stayed too long, Soren did not seek work here. Upon leaving town, he visited Elena’s unmarked grave, although he did not know why he came or what he was supposed to do. He promptly left her gravesite to steal offerings from the ones with tombstones. Moving on, he spent the night in someone’s hunting cabin in the woods.

Not long after that, Soren came to a town containing a large temple. It housed a dozen priests, priestesses, and acolytes and another dozen novices at various stages in their training. Clerics and bishops in the army even came here to study light magic and stave healing. Remembering the hot food and warm bed he’d been given at Temple Asic, Soren couldn’t help but hope this place would offer the same relief.

He waited until the end of the day, when the acolytes dispensed free food and medicine to the poor folk who lined up with bowls in hand. The Head Priestess, a tall woman with flashing gold eyes, oversaw the alms but did not participate herself. While standing in line with the others, Soren watched her and determined she was quite different than Belm and likely to be less welcoming.

When it was his turn to be served, he held out his bowl to receive a ration of the rice porridge and salted fish. “Does the temple need another pair of hands?” he asked the middle-aged acolyte. “I would work in exchange for a bed.”

She appeared caught off guard by the question. “W-we are perfectly sufficiently staffed, thank you,” she managed to say.

“I may not look it, but I am a wind mage…and a bearer of Ashera’s Protection.” He lifted his hat enough to reveal the birthmark before pulling it down again. “I would be honored to serve in a place graced by the Goddess.” He had practiced the line all afternoon, forcing the lies between his teeth, oozing just the right amount of reverence.

The acolyte seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “May I see that again?” she asked, pointing timidly at his head. Soren removed his hat entirely this time, deciding it was best not to seem like he was hiding it after all. The acolyte stared at the mark a moment and swallowed fearfully. Soren didn’t think that was a good sign, but she then seemed to collect her composure, glancing at the line behind him. “I-if you go to the prayer garden, someone will meet with you when we are finished here.”

Soren nodded and took her advice. The hot porridge steamed in the cold air, and he slurped it down as soon as he reached the circular garden next to the temple’s main building. The snow had been cleared away, and there were divots in the cold, compacted earth from the knees of people praying to the central statue all day. Walking around the sculpture, Soren assessed it from all angles.

Ashera appeared in bronze three times over, and by moving clockwise, he could watch the goddess go through the motions of striking down the dark god who’d flooded the world. First the god raised the seas to swamp mankind, then Ashera appeared and split the waters, thus saving one of the three men whose aghast faces appeared in the metal. Then she pulled a great sword from the water and cleaved the monstrous beast in two. The god melted into its own flood, and the surviving human prostrated himself before the version of the goddess who stood tall at the center of the sculpture. It was an intricate work of art, and the tendrils of bronze meant to resemble water seemed to flow and course around the sculpture when the viewer circled it.

“It is called Divine Justice,” a voice said, and Soren turned toward it. The Head Priestess was standing at the entrance to the garden with a male acolyte on either side. “It is a reminder to strike down darkness wherever it may appear. To oppose darkness is to act in the Goddess’s name. To mirror her image and to lead by her example—these are the only ways by which we can preserve the world.”

Soren tried not to stare at her as skeptically as he felt. “It’s a nice statue,” he said simply.

“I’ve been told you seek a place among us. Is that true?” Despite her long-winded introduction, it appeared she was willing to get down to business, and Soren appreciated that.

“Yes,” he answered. “I have worked at other temples before, doing whatever chores need be done. I can read, write, and manipulate large numbers. And as a Spirit Charmer, I am trained in wind magic.”

The priestess narrowed her golden eyes. “You claim to be a Spirit Charmer?” she asked in a low voice. “Think carefully before you answer. You stand on holy ground, and Ashera is listening.”

Soren eyed the acolytes on either side of her and realized they were both holding light tomes. He had been tricked into waiting for his own ambush. Then again, no one had tricked him into coming here. He’d known the risks and come greedily, hoping he could lie his way back into an easy life. He should have known better.

“Are you a Spirit Charmer?” the Head Priestess prompted again. “Or are you a liar?”

Soren took a step back. “I can see you are not amenable to the idea. You could have just said so. I can leave.” He took another step and looked for another way out of the garden.

“And spread your ilk elsewhere?” She shook her head. “I will not allow it. You, defiler, are the darkness that seeps into this world. You will now be expunged.”

Soren closed his eyes and threw up his arms in an attempt not to be blinded by the dual light attacks. But the brightness dazzled his eyelids anyway, and he felt the attacks burning his arms, chin, and chest. It sizzled through his clothes, melting his sleeves. The warmth was entirely different than the heat of a flame. It was dizzying, and before he knew it, he was on the ground pressing his burned arms into the cool dirt. He felt his nerves had been fried, and the slightest touch of the ground was like an electric shock.

Colored dots blotted out his vision. Two pairs of hands seized him and dragged him away. He struggled, but it was useless; he hardly knew which way was up. Before long, he was tossed into a cold, damp place. When his eyes adjusted and the shock of the light attack passed, he realized he was in some sort of cellar. Resisting the urge to soothe his wounds in the dirty water pooling in the corner, Soren stumbled over to the iron grate door and called to whoever might be standing guard: “What’s going on!”

“You’re going to be exorcised, wretch,” someone called back. “Now why don’t you get a head’s start and start praying? Might hurt less.” The voice laughed as if this was a particularly funny idea.

Soren started shivering and couldn’t tell if it was due to the cold, an aftereffect of the light attack, or simply fear. He recalled Greil’s warning as if the man were standing in the cell with him: “Men of faith come in two types,” he’d said, “the ones who’ll enshrine you and the ones who want to burn you at the stake. You’ve got to know how to read them. You’ve got to anticipate what they’re looking for.” Soren had done absolutely no reconnaissance before presenting himself at this temple. That was his own foolish mistake.

But he was determined it would not be a fatal one. Examining the cellar around him, he searched for an escape. There were two narrow windows set into the wall, but they were twice his height and there was nothing to climb on. Even if he could reach them, the iron bars were too thick to cut with wind magic.

Next Soren turned his attention to the door. The bars were of the same thickness as the windows, but it was only held in place with a simple padlock—the kind Soren had demolished countless times before.

The clergy had not taken his wind tome, and that was their mistake. Perhaps they’d assumed his claim to know wind magic was equal to his claim of Spirit’s Protection. Summoning his power and concentration, Soren aimed a spell at the lock. He knew the sound would draw whatever guard owned the voice and the laugh, but he would deal with that when the time came.

“*Fly spirits of wind!*” The bars rattled in the gale, and the lock fractured, falling to the ground with a thud.

“What’re you doing down there!” a man’s face appeared around the bend atop of the steps.

Soren wasted no time directing his next attack straight at him. “*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me!*”

He yelped and pulled back his neck in surprise. The winds flew past, digging a small hole in the stone wall. “Flying flapjacks!” the guard exclaimed. Soren had seen his white collar and could only assume he was a light mage. He may have even been one of the ones who’d attacked him, but Soren hadn’t been memorizing their faces at the time.

Dashing up the steps, Soren chanted another spell. He could hear the man incanting his own, but Soren was faster. He ducked low to the ground as soon as he reached the top of the steps and aimed his spell at the man’s legs.

A burst of light erupted above Soren’s head, just singeing his hair. But he was otherwise unharmed, and that was more than he could say for the acolyte. The man had fallen to the floor, where he rocked back and forth gripping his leg. The blade of wind had cut deep, and Soren could see a sliver of white bone amidst the gushing blood. He stepped back to avoid the growing pool and wondered if he’d unintentionally hit the femoral artery.

“You monster! You bastard! You f-freak,” the man stammered while his face went ashen. “Ashera will smite you for this!”

Soren thought that was a bizarre threat. “Ashera won’t avenge you,” he whispered in reply. “If she even exists, I am sure she doesn’t care about anything you or I do.”

“Blasphemy!” the man cried, and there were tears running down his pale cheeks.

Reaching out a hand to his light tome, the binding of which was already soaked in blood, he began uttering the words of a spell: “*Spirits of light, follow my-*”

Soren had begun chanting before the man had set fingers to the tome, and now he unleashed his own spell. “*-before me!*”

This time, the wind arced downward like an invisible lance. Soren had hardly had a chance to aim it, but the gusts tore into the man’s neck and shoulder, splattering the blood in an eerie splash and pushing the pool away in ripples. Soren was completely taken aback by the effect. He’d never aimed a spell in such a way, and he had certainly never used magic to hurt someone so extensively before.

Retreating farther down the hall, Soren stared at the man and was momentarily confused that he wasn’t struggling to rise or utter another light spell. He wasn’t unleashing furious threats or silly curses. He wasn’t doing anything. Watching the blood spread a moment longer, he realized the light mage was dead.

Soren had killed him.

“Hey, you okay, Gorgov?” a voice called down the hall. “I thought I heard-”

Heart beating fast, blood pumping in his veins, Soren launched himself over the dead acolyte’s body and ran toward the face at the end of the hall. He summoned another wind spell while this man stared in surprise, but he couldn’t bring himself to make this one sharp.

The gust blew hard against the man, knocking him against the wall. His head hit stone, but he did not fall unconscious. He merely raised one hand to the back of his head, obviously dizzy, while reaching out to Soren with the other. 

But Soren was too fast, and he ran down the adjacent hall as fast as he could. The sun was setting when he exploded from the temple’s basement entrance. No one else was standing guard, but acolytes, novices, and a couple patrons were still milling about the temple grounds.

Sparing them only a cursory glance, Soren ran for his life. He heard someone scream and someone else shout, “Stop him!” But he didn’t look to see who’d said it.

“Murderer!” someone yelled next, and he knew this voice belonged to the dazed man in the hall. He must have found his comrade’s body.

Pops of light magic exploded behind him, but none hit him. When he reached the edge of the temple grounds, he ran through a copse of trees, waded across a freezing cold creek, and didn’t stop running until he reached town again. He exited the little forest near the town’s forging district and hid in a mule’s stall listening to the hammering and clinking of metal until his heart quieted.

He knew people would be looking for him, and he knew this was an obvious hiding place. So as soon as he’d caught his breath, he left the stall and skirted through alleyways, across smith yards, and around smelters.

Night soon fell, and Soren was grateful for the darkness even if it also meant the temperature dropped. The cold prickled the inside of his lungs as he ran, and he felt like tiny slivers of ice were shredding him from the inside. When he couldn’t run anymore, he found a crevasse between two giant rocks in the woods and crawled inside, hoping it wasn’t the den of a dangerous creature.

He was terrified smoke would draw the attention of his pursuers, if they were still out looking for him, so he didn’t start a fire. Wrapping his cloak around himself and burrowing as far back into the cave as he could, he gingerly touched the burns on his arm, face, and neck and ran the entire event through his mind—over and over.

He had killed a man, a man who’d had a name. “Gorgov” the other had called him. He’d been a clergyman, a servant of Ashera, a supposedly _good_ person. But Soren had only been defending himself, and could that man have been truly good if he and his comrades had attacked and imprisoned him? Soren was not quite sure what ‘exorcism’ entailed, because it was not an approved practice of the church; Temple Asic had certainly not had any books about it. But he understood enough to know it probably would have left him dead, and that would have made Gorgov and the others the killers in this situation. 

“There are no murderers,” Soren mumbled to himself. He wasn’t quite sure what he meant by it, but for some reason, the words gave him comfort. “There are no murderers.” Shivering in the dark, Soren squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself that magic was a weapon, and weapons were meant to maim and kill. That was why he’d wanted to learn magic in the first place: to defend himself, to hurt the people who wanted to hurt him. “This was what I wanted,” he whispered. Then a thought surged into his brain, and he gave voice to it: “That man had no more right to live than me.” With this in mind, Soren fell into a half-sleep.

In the early days of spring, Soren was kidnapped and trapped into service by a bandit company of forty or so men and women. The leader fancied himself ‘King of the Barbarians’, and as king, he wanted servants. Soren, being young, defenseless, and relatively able-bodied, was a natural choice to join his hoard. He did whatever he was told and was not allowed to leave or ask questions. In return, he was given food to eat, clothes and shoes to wear, a smelly hide to keep himself warm at night, and a tent to sleep in with the other servants.

He had his tome but he didn’t use it to escape. Even after coming to terms with the necessity of killing to stay alive, he was not fond of the prospect of doing it again. He was treated well enough at the hands of the bandits, who exercised their blood lust (and regular lust) on their victims and so had no violence left to expend on their slaves.

Soren sharpened their weapons, polished and painted their armor, washed and mended their clothes, cleaned and cured the hides from their hunts, cooked their food, poured their ale, washed their cups and bowls, dug their latrines, delivered their messages, carried their belongings, and so on. He stayed with the bandits for two months and had no plans for escaping, but the decision was made for him.

One night, when the ground was thick with the day’s rain, Soren heard the sound of hooves splashing and slurping through the sodden earth. Thirty Crimean cavalrymen bedecked in gleaming armor came riding through the field, spraying mud in their wake. The bandit’s camp exploded in confused fighting, and Soren ran for his life with the other servants.

When he reached the woods, he climbed a large dogwood tree and hid among the sleeping white buds. Horses twisted their ankles in the bloated earth, and a messy battle ensued. The soldiers were outnumbered, but even with the terrain advantage, the bandits were outmatched. The King of Barbarians died, along with most of his cohort.

Even after the raid ended, Soren stayed in the tree. With his back against the wet trunk and his feet pressed unevenly against two different branches, he breathed in the rather unappealing, almost salty smell of the dogwood flowers and wondered why he could never hold on to any sense of security.

Later that spring, while wandering aimlessly down a forgotten path in the countryside, Soren happened upon a curious place. It was a little cabin at the end of a long stretch of farmland. It was surrounded on all sides by a square fence, and ropes were strung from the porch to various points within the yard. They led to the door of a tool shed, the corner of a wood pile, the handle of a well, the edge of a chicken coop, the gatepost of a small corral of goats, and the arbor of a well-tended garden.

An old woman hobbled out of the house, prodded the ground with a walking stick. Seizing one of the ropes with a gnarled hand, she followed it. After watching a couple moments, Soren realized the woman was blind. Curious if she would notice him, he approached the fence. When she showed no sign of hearing him, he gently pushed open the gate and stepped inside.

The hinges squeaked when it closed behind him, and the woman’s head shot up. “Who’s there?”

Soren remained still.

“I know you’re there!” she called grumpily. “It’s cruel to play pranks on an old blind woman. Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

Soren still said nothing.

Giving up, the woman returned to the task of using her hands and feet to measure plots in the garden. She dug trenches, mounded dirt, and planted seeds, marking each with a stake. She set up lattices and posts for climbing plants. Soren was impressed.

But when watching her ceased interesting him, he went to the house and looked through the windows. There was no sign of another person living here. Soren braved a step onto the porch, and the creaking wood immediately caught the woman’s attention.

“Stay out of my house! I know you’re there!” She began hauling herself hand-over-hand along the rope, but Soren hopped off the porch before she could reach him. He was light on his feet, and she soon lost track of him again.

“Pah!” she grumbled, going inside and slamming the door.

In that moment, Soren decided he would stay here for a while. He could easily avoid the blind woman, and even if she caught him, he didn’t think she could hurt him. He would steal eggs from her chickens and milk from her goats. He could pilfer food from her kitchen and draw all the water he needed from her well. He could dig himself a place under her porch and perhaps even furnish it with blankets from her house. He could seek shelter in her shed if need be, and when her garden started producing crops, he could steal those as well.

Over the next few days, Soren proceeded with his plan—much to the woman’s frustration. She often suspected he was there, but he never let her catch him. Once he even sneezed, and the woman was sent into a crazed fit trying to find him and hit him with her stick.

Soren explored the area and determined secondary locations he could hide if anyone showed up. But farmers rarely checked these fields, and when they did, they completely ignored the woman and her allotment.

A week passed before someone came to check on her specifically, and when he finally heard a horse on the road, Soren made himself scarce. He ran in the opposite direction so the house would hide his escape and crouched in a neglected orchard. From here he watched a man who might have been the woman’s son dismount and try to hug her. But the woman did not return the gesture, clearing enraged. She waved her stick around, gesticulating wildly.

Soren wondered if she was telling him about the vagrant who’d moved in under her porch and if he would believe her. Of course, Soren hid his blankets behind a rock each day so no one peeking in would see evidence of him living there. He couldn’t help but grin at the woman’s expense. She had been a fine companion, and as long as this man was not here to stay, she would continue to be.

The woman’s son began visiting more often after that, and sometimes Soren merely hid behind the shed until he left, rather than running all the way to the orchard. He listened to their conversations and knew the woman was beseeching her son to rid her of the trespasser. The man, meanwhile, thought his mother was losing her mind, and he begged her to leave this little plot of land and come live with his family in town. The woman adamantly refused.

When she showed him the tops missing from her asparagus, the son said deer must have been nibbling them in the night. When she pointed to the empty spaces in her cupboard, her son asked if she remembered how many blankets she’d originally owned. When she brought him into her the tiny cellar where she curdled cheese and tried to explain what was missing, it was clear he did not trust his mother’s judgement in the least. Soren nearly laughed.

But he knew this easy life leaching off the woman could not last, and he fully expected to be discovered one of these days. Eventually that day arrived—or rather, night. Soren had been sound asleep in his den under the porch steps, but he jolted awake when he felt someone dragging him by the ankles. He kicked and squirmed, but his own stolen blankets inhibited his movement. Before he knew it, he was exposed in the dewy night air.

“I told you!” the woman crowed triumphantly. “I told you!”

“It’s a kid!” the son announced, obviously astounded to find he’d been wrong.

“Let go of me,” Soren snarled, using his voice for the first time since coming here. He was taken aback by how animalistic it sounded.

The man caught sight of Soren’s birthmark in the moonlight, and his expression changed from bewilderment to horror. “He’s cursed!” he warned his mother. “Stay back!”

“I’m the one who’s cursed,” grumbled the woman, “Cursed with a dunderhead for a son.”

Soren tried to run, but he seized his legs. In the struggle that ensued, the man got a few good punches in. One forced Soren to bite his tongue, filling his mouth with blood. He tried to form the words of a spell, but he couldn’t complete a full utterance before the man hit him again.

“Begone devil! You leave my mother alone!” he panted between blows.

Soren would have liked nothing better than to be gone, but in spite of his words, the man would not let him. He continued to wail on Soren, perhaps beating out his own frustration at having been fooled for so long.

When he finally tired, he sat back on his heels, panting. Soren picked himself up and ran with his sore arms crossed over his bruised stomach and chest. He tucked his chin and didn’t stop until he was confident the man wouldn’t catch him even if he did recover his breath and decide to pursue.

Eventually being chased away—that he had expected, but he’d not anticipated how bad the beating would be. Grimacing against the pain, Soren spat out a glob of blood and saliva. _Why do I keep taking risks like this?_ he wondered, but the answer came immediately: he had no choice. Being alive (and trying to stay that way) was risk enough.


	11. CHAPTER 11: GREIL's MERCENARIES

Upon leaving the blind woman’s cottage, Soren resumed his now familiar trudge from one village to the next, seeking work from whomever would give it. This was an even more difficult task than usual until his bruises healed. If his birthmark and general raggedness didn’t already repulse people, the purple and yellow bruises certainly did. They were an indication he attracted violence and trouble.

Summer had arrived by the time Soren could find regular work again. He was hired to repair the windows of a rundown inn. He washed the glass panes, filled the cracks with foul-smelling resin, sanded them down until his arms felt like gelatin, and then washed them again. It was a full day’s work, but in return, he was fed from the inn’s leftovers and allowed to stay in one of the rooms.

The inn was falling apart, held together by rotten boards, crooked nails, rusty hinges, and scratched glass. But there was a potato patch behind the inn and a small distillery behind the stable. The innkeeper sold moonshine to keep his guests drunk and the rooms rented.

It was a damp day, and not a single ray of the young summer sun found its way through the clouds. Soren’s hands were numb, and without the glass in the windows, a draft seeped through the drawn shutters, making the interior clammy as well as dark. Only a few men and women sat in the chairs, wrapping their fingers around mugs of black coffee while beside their hands were upturned glasses once containing liquor.

“You done yet?” the innkeeper asked, pouring Soren a mug despite his age.

Soren accepted the burnt-tasting liquid, because he would take anything. “I’m done,” he answered, “But they will have to sit overnight.”

“You’re losing me customers,” the man grumbled. “It’s damn cold in here.”

“The task would have taken the same amount of time, no matter who did it,” Soren returned. “You are the one who gave me the instructions.”

“I thought you would’ve finished sooner.”

“A deal is a deal,” Soren reminded him.

“Aye, it is.” He slid a key across the counter. “The room is yours. But you help me get those panes in place tomorrow and then you gotto go. No sleeping in or hanging around, you got that?”

“Understood,” Soren agreed. He was tempted to go to the room now, but if he was not present at the end of the evening, he suspected the leftovers would find their way into the trough for the neighbor’s pigs instead of on a plate for him. So he waited for the innkeeper to give up waiting for more customers and give him what he owed. Soren knew his work deserved more than the last rind of bread and the dregs of the stew pot, but he also knew better than to try this man’s patience and ask for more. While he waited, he sipped the coffee and listened to the quiet murmur of the inn’s other occupants.

Nothing sparked his interest for a long time. But then, when he’d reached the grounds at the bottom of his mug, he overheard something that caused his head to snap up:

“The Greil Mercenaries I think they were called,” a deep-voiced man was saying to his companion. He had his feet kicked up an empty chair. “Yes, that was their name. I’m sure of it.”

“Never heard of ‘em,” replied his companion, a man leaning so far over his bowl that droplets of steam condensed on his whiskers.

“That don’t mean the stories aren’t true,” the first man replied. “I heard they took care of that little ‘spute in Arbor lickety-split. When the Knights got there, the lot was sure embarrassed to find their job’d already been done for ‘em. By a rag-tag band of mercenaries no less! That’ll show ‘em what all their pretty armor’s worth.” 

“If they’re so good, why’s it I’ve never heard these stories?” sighed the man with the wet beard. 

“Oh they’re small-time, but I swear they’ve got potential. Maybe I’ll join ‘em myself,” the man chuckled.

“What, are you going to whack the bandits with your shovel?”

“Hey, I was a good shot when I was younger!”

Sensing that the conversation was moving away from the information Soren wanted to know, he decided to step in. Leaving his mug behind, he approached the men’s table. They stopped talking to stare at him.

“What d’you want, kid?” asked the deep-voiced one.

“Did you say Greil’s mercenaries?”

“Yeah, ‘Greil’ or whatever. What’s it to you?”

“Where are they located?”

“Get lost, kid. This is a priv’t conv’sation,” groaned the wet-bearded one.

“Where can I find these mercenaries?” Soren pressed.

“Why d’you wanna know?” the deep-voiced one harrumphed.

“That is my own business,” Soren shot back. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No idea where their base is, but I heard about the job in Arbor, and another job in Misiline, so maybe around there’bouts.”

Soren nodded and left them alone as promised. Soon after that, the innkeeper laid a plate of food in front of him. Despite his hunger, he ate slowly and ruminated on this discovery.

Greil was not a common name, and the existence of a mercenary band with that appellation surely meant he’d succeeded in founding the company he and Elena had once planned. This suggested Greil had not lost his mind in a violent rage again, and therefore Ike was likely still safely living alongside him.

If he found the mercenaries, he would find Ike, and if Greil’s offer still stood, he may very well find a job and a place to stay. Whatever his reasons for leaving Ike and Greil those years ago, they did not concern him anymore. Any sense of security would be better than his current struggle to survive, and seeing Ike again would be far better than continuing to be alone.

While he headed southwest, Soren inquired about the mercenaries everywhere he went, but no one seemed to have heard of them. So Soren decided to try the smaller villages—the much smaller villages. They were pitiful places comprised of a few tiny shacks clustered together on lands with poor soil. These towns contained a disproportionate number of the elderly and infirmed, because the young and strong had either moved to cities or were traveling as farmhands where the earth was more fertile.

Among these impoverished and hopeless people, Soren finally heard tales of the mercenaries. He discovered they were stationed near the city of Arbor, just as the man in the inn had said, but from here they serviced villages throughout the entire hold.

“The Greil Merc’naries? Oh sure! They’re up in the ol’ fort, in the woods, that’a way,” said an old codger with only four fingers remaining on each hand and about that many teeth missing from his mouth.

Soren nodded and started off in the direction he’d pointed. His ambition to find the mercenaries had superseded his search for food these past few days, and his body ached with weakness.

But these complaints melted from his mind when the trees finally thinned and he entered a rocky clearing, at the center of which was the ruin of a fort. It was surrounded by a tall stone wall, so Soren could not see much of what lay inside other than the keep’s main tower. The exterior was gray and uninviting, but as he drew closer, he heard voices, shouts, and even laughter coming from inside.

The front gate was ajar, and Soren could now clearly hear the sounds of people talking and weapons clashing. A horse nickered. A girl’s voice laughed riotously as if maybe she was being tickled. Suddenly feeling nervous, Soren took a steadying breath. 

“What do you want, kid?” a voice yawned, drawing his attention to a young man he hadn’t noticed before. He’d been sitting against the wall, but now he stood and stretching as if just waking up. The man was tall and lean with a long ponytail of maroon hair. A longbow and quiver rested against the wall alongside him. “Well? You just come to stare?” When his mouth was closed, he looked bored. When he spoke, he scowled.

“I’ve come to see Greil.”

“What does a pipsqueak like you want with the Commander?”

“Is he here, or isn’t he?” Soren glared back at him.

“Whatever,” he yawned again. “I’ll bring you too him, but you’d better not tell him I was sleeping on my shift, alright?”

“Wasn’t on my agenda,” Soren replied.

“Hmph.” 

The ponytail man led him into the fort, and to Soren’s slight disappointment, it wasn’t as big as it had appeared from the outside. The wall encircled a training ground, a small stable, and a garden. In one corner was a collapsed watchtower, but the only other edifice was the modestly sized keep, the top of which he’d seen from outside.

The well-trodden bailey was vibrant with activity. Several pairs were sparring within dirt-drawn rings while others watched, calling out advice and warnings. Soren counted ten heads including the one next to him.

“Yo, Boss!” the ponytail man called, waving to where Greil strutted among the matches, watching the pairs trade blows with a gruff frown. His poleax was strapped to his back, and he was paying particular attention to where Ike was sparring with a red-haired woman.

The woman was wielding a wooden pole and Ike a wooden bat carved into the approximation of a sword. She easily deflected each of the boy’s furious blows.

“Don’t go easy on him, Titania. He needs to learn to defend as well,” Greil called out, and the woman immediately countered and disarmed Ike, planting his butt in the dusty ground.

Ike seized the bat again, panting hard. Greil moved his son’s fingers into the correct grip and then pressed down on his shoulder while kicking his feet into a wider stance. “Try again,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir!” Ike crowed.

Hearing his friend’s voice sent Soren’s heart racing, and for a moment, it was as if all the unpleasantness of the past few years had been nothing but a bad dream. Oddly enough, he felt proud that Ike was finally learning how to fight. He’d waited so long for this.

“Yo, Boss!” the pony-tail man called again, jogging up to get Greil’s attention. “There’s a kid here asking for you.”

This time, Greil glanced at them. He looked mildly surprised to see Soren, and his flat mouth eased into something of a smile. He raised a hand to stop the sparring match, even though Ike and the woman had only traded a couple blows. Saying something to Ike, he pointed in Soren’s direction.

His heart beat even faster the moment Ike’s face turned to look at him. His friend was older, taller, less child-like. He looked healthy, and his skin seemed to glow beneath the sweat and dust. Soren offered a weak smile.

But Ike did not return the expression. His eyes were unrecognizing, and that stopped Soren’s heart cold. Ike looked confused, and he said something back to Greil, who replied with more inaudible words. Soren forced himself to catch up to the ponytail man.

“Well who do we have here, Shinon?” the red-haired woman addressed Soren’s escort. She stepped up to them and leaned the pole against her shoulder. She looked familiar, and after a moment, Soren recognized her as the knight who’d processed Sileas when the pair had crossed into Crimea. If he hadn’t remembered Koure from that same day, he didn’t think he would have recognized her. But he did, and he found himself wondering why a Royal Knight was sparring with mercenaries.

Shinon shrugged. “Some brat who insisted on talking with the Commander.”

“I can speak for myself.” He gave Shinon an icy glare before turning to Greil.

“Soren,” Greil greeted him with a firm handshake. “I wondered if I’d see you again.”

Soren took a moment to examine the imposing man. He looked older, a bit grayer, but no less strong and sturdy. “I was wondering, sir,” he began, “if your offer still stood.”

Greil surveyed him for a few moments in return, but then he nodded decisively. “Indeed it does. We could use another good hand. Come inside, and we’ll talk about the business of it. Titania, you come too. You can go back to your post, Shinon. Ike, practice your breathing and stances.”

“Hold up.” Shinon raised his hands. “You’re going to let this pipsqueak become a mercenary? Why not just send Rolf out there if you want to see a kid get maimed?”

“ _Shinon_ ,” the woman—Titania—scolded, “It’s not for us to question the Commander’s judgment.” Despite her words, she glanced at Soren with uncertainly.

He understood their doubt. He knew he didn’t look like a mercenary, and he knew everyone in this yard was thinking the same thing. But he was determined to prove himself. Braving another glace at Ike, he needed to see if doubt filled his friend’s eyes too.

It did not. That being said, he still looked confused—and perhaps a little strained, as if struggling to remember something. Soren didn’t understand how he could have forgotten him, but that was not a question he could ask right now. Greil and Titania were leading him into the keep, so he followed, leaving Ike behind.

Apparently Greil could tell how hungry he was, so while they discussed wages, Soren dined on cold rice left over from the mercenaries’ midday meal. He didn’t want to seem weak—especially when promising his strength to the company—but his stomach certainly appreciated the food.

It was quickly decided that Soren would be given one share of the company’s profits, which equated to about two percent. It was a pittance, but Soren was in no position to haggle. When business was concluded, Titania went to prepare a room and mattress and to draw up the official contract. Soren was left alone with Greil.

After an awkward silence, the man said softly: “It is good to see you again, Soren. I’m glad you’re alive. I know it couldn’t have been easy these past few years.”

“I survived,” was the only response he could give.

“I’m sure you’ve had to fight, and I would understand if you’ve had enough of it.”

He didn’t know what Greil wanted him to say, but he wouldn’t moan or gloat about it. “I’ve had my share of scrapes.”

Greil sighed. “Children are resilient. They don’t scar easily, but that doesn’t mean-”

“I am not a child,” Soren cut him off, surprised that the words had slipped out. Greil had never been one to beat around the bush, and it was oddly frustrating to hear him do so now.

“I am not trying to belittle what you’ve been through.” He shook his head. “I’m trying to say you don’t have to sign that contract. You would be welcome to stay without joining the company. It’s what Elena would have wanted.”

“I will work for my keep,” Soren replied firmly. “I am a mage.”

Greil frowned. “I shouldn’t have invited you to join at such a young age. She tried to tell me it was a bad idea, but I thought I was doing you a favor. I thought I was giving you a livelihood… but killing is no way to live.”

“Strange coming from the commander of a mercenary company,” Soren observed.

“It’s too late for me; this is the only thing I’ll ever be good at. But mercenary work isn’t for everyone. It isn’t easy. We have to keep fighting. That’s the job.” He sighed again. “Tell me, Soren…have you ever killed anyone with that little book of yours?”

Soren swallowed before answering, knowing he had to appear composed. “Yes.”

Greil gave one solemn nod. “Are you really willing to do it again? And again? That’s the job, lad, and I have to know you understand-”

“I did not come here on a whim,” Soren cut him off again, surprised by the irritation he felt bubbling to the surface.

Greil nodded one more time. “Then it’s decided. Welcome to the Greil Mercenaries.”

Soren released some of the tension in his shoulders. “Thank you, sir,” he managed to say, even though the gratitude felt unfamiliar on his lips.

“I’m sure you must be tired, but there’s one more thing I need to discuss with you...”

“And what is that?”

“Ike.” Greil leaned back in his chair so he could look at the training ground below the window. “I’m not sure what he remembers about you, but I don’t want you to be disappointed if it isn’t much.”

“Why would he not remember?” Soren tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“I know you were good friends. But after Elena’s death, Ike coped by…forgetting her.” Greil seemed to lose his usual confidence, and for a moment, Soren saw the broken man from that night after the storm. “He doesn’t remember Gallia or our move to Crimea. We don’t discuss it, but he never speaks of his mother—or of you. I’m afraid you were a casualty in the culling of his memory… I don’t want you to be surprised, so I’m telling you now.” Once the uncomfortable confession was over, Greil seemed to regain his composure. “Aright?” he asked gruffly, as if it were that simple.

“I understand,” Soren said, although he did not.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Greil said, rising from his chair. He led Soren down the hall, where Titania met them halfway. Transferring Soren to her, he took his leave of them both, and Titania escorted him the rest of the way.

“Excellent to have you among us,” she greeted kindly, and Soren assumed she didn’t remember him from that day on the Daein border. He saw no point in trying to revive her memory or forging any sort of bond between them, so he said nothing.

The room she led him to was a bit cramped. There was a bed with a table beside it, a chest at the foot of it, and a narrow wardrobe on the opposite wall. A window beside the wardrobe looked out on the forest behind the fort.

“I’m sorry about the size,” Titania apologized, “We were using this as a storage room before today, but at least it’s clean.”

Soren shook his head. “It is fine,” he said, and it truly was. He’d never had a bed to call his own. Even when living at Temple Asic, he’d been given the soft sleeping mat and nothing more. He was grateful for the sturdiness of the furniture, the privacy of the lockable door, and the drawers where he could store possessions he might own in the future. No matter how small or insignificant this room might appear, to him it was a sanctuary.

After bathing, resting, and making himself as presentable as possible, Soren went to share dinner with the rest of the company. He tried to control his breathing as he walked down the corridor, but in his twisted-up heart, he feared this arrangement wouldn’t work out. He worried the other mercenaries would despise him and his friendship with Ike would never be rekindled.

Arriving in the mess hall, Soren concentrated on walking with patient yet deliberate steps. He didn’t want to seem timid, but neither did he want to seem arrogant or overeager. Mist caught this eye and patted the space on the bench between her and Ike. Judging by the nine-year-old’s wide, friendly eyes, it seemed she recognized him even though her brother did not. Ike gave a small wave as his own invitation, and Soren was relieved he was making an effort.

Once Soren sat down, a green-haired boy smiled broadly and reached across the table to shake his hand. “I’m Boyd,” he introduced himself. He couldn’t have been much older than Soren, but he must have been the type for whom puberty hit hard and fast. His muscles and too-tight clothes did not quite match his still-boyish face. Soren gave his own name in reply, and this triggered a round of introductions starting on Boyd’s left:

“Gatrie,” said a big man with spiky yellow hair, blue eyes, and a squarish face.

“Shinon,” said the archer from earlier.

“I’m Rhys,” said the next. He was a young man with very pale skin, orange hair, and red eyes. He seemed friendly enough, but Soren couldn’t help but stiffen when he saw he wore the white robes of a light mage. For a moment they appeared red-stained to Soren’s eyes, and Rhys’s smile twisted in to Gorgov’s slack death mask

But the vision passed as soon as the next person introduced herself, and Soren hoped nobody noticed his reaction. “Titania,” said the red-haired woman from before, “but we’ve met already.” She was seated at the head of the table to Soren’s right, and Soren had gathered by now that she was Greil’s second-in-command.

“Rolf!” announced a green-haired little boy on her left. He must have been Mist’s age if not younger, and Soren wondered why there was another child here. 

Mist was sitting between him and Rolf. “I am Mist,” she said, “but you must know that. We’ve met before, right?”

Soren just nodded and turned to face Ike, who was seated immediately to his left. His breath caught at the site of the boy’s smile. It was the same friendly smile he knew so well, and yet there was still no recognition there. “My name’s Ike, but I guess you know that too. Father said you stayed with us for a while when we were kids.”

A bubbling of frustration, a prick of betrayal, and a deep sense of loss pierced Soren’s heart in that moment. In just three and a half years, Ike had completely forgotten him, while during that time Soren had been forced to remember everything. It took all of his self-control to hide his disappointment. “Yes,” he said after a pause that was only a second too long.

“Let’s be friends, okay?” Ike extended his hand in the narrow gap between them.

Soren didn’t trust his voice, but he accepted the handshake and nodded. Staring into Ike’s bright blue eyes, his disappointment ebbed slightly. Whatever had happened in the past, he was here now, and he would start over if he had to. Ike was still the same person, and despite everything, so was Soren.

On Ike’s left, Greil took his seat opposite Titania. He needed no introduction.

Soren scanned the group and thought someone was missing. A moment later, a green-haired young man entered with a large platter. Laying it in the center of the table, he removed the cover to reveal a turkey surrounded by roasted potatoes and vegetables. He then sat down between Boyd and Gatrie.

“That’s my big brother, Oscar,” Rolf said, pointing excitedly. “His cooking is great!”

Titania covered Rolf’s extended finger. “It’s rude to point, Rolf,” she admonished.

“Let’s eat!” Greil ordered, and everyone dug in. Only the light mage Rhys whispered a prayer over his plate before eating, and Soren was oddly relieved this wasn’t an overly religious bunch. (Then again, he supposed mercenaries usually weren’t.)

The meal wasn’t as uncomfortable as Soren had feared. The company seemed more than happy to discuss ordinary things and relive shared memories, but neither was Soren ignored. They told him stories of the company’s previous exploits, they explained their own pasts and reasons for joining, and of course, they asked him about himself. Any degree of interrogation made Soren uncomfortable, so he gave brief, vague answers and changed the subject when he could. Everyone seemed to get the hint and stopped asking personal questions by the time the meal was over.

Whenever he could, Soren tried to catch glimpses of Ike and assess the years of change in him. The boy had grown several inches, and he looked harder and pointier around the edges, as if he’d lost the soft roundness of his baby fat all at once. Other than that, he wasn’t much different physically, but over the course of meal Soren realized he’d changed in other ways. He had matured. He wasn’t the silly, carefree child he’d once been. He spoke with the others about real battles and real death, not play-fighting with sticks.

Soren quickly realized he was absolutely devoted to the mercenaries, even though he was not a full member. He had never seen battle himself, and oddly enough, this was a relief to Soren. He didn’t want Ike to grow too much just yet.

Understanding and anticipating the behavior of his new companions seemed like a necessary first step to living among them, so Soren absorbed everything he could about them as quickly as possible. First was Titania, Greil’s deputy. As a Royal Knight, she’d risen to the rank of captain before retiring at a young age, and many of the mercenaries referred to her as “Captain” out of respect. Although Soren did not know the full story, he understood she left the army to help Greil found the mercenary band out of a sense of loyalty to him that somehow trumped her loyalty to her nation and her vows as a Royal Knight. She was trained as an axe paladin, and as expected, she was the most skilled fighter in the company (second only to Greil).

Oscar was the only other cavalryman in the group. He was a lance paladin, and he too was formerly a Royal Knight. After the first few days, Soren realized he recognized him as well. Oscar had been one of the knights to greet Sileas when the pair had entered Gallia. But like Titania, he showed no sign of having recognized him in return, and Soren was not about to remind them. He did not want his new companions thinking he had anything to do with Gallia, and therefore the subhumans who lived there. As for the man himself, Oscar was calm, patient, and reserved. He was an excellent fighter and a descent cook, just as Rolf had claimed. Boyd and Rolf were both his younger brothers, and it was to become Rolf’s guardian that Oscar had retired from the Knights.

Although they looked entirely different, Boyd was actually Soren’s age. Despite his large size, his immaturity was evident in his rash and often rather stupid behavior. But he was a full member of the company, having joined a year ago at the age of twelve. He wielded hand axes in battle, and what he lacked in technique, he made up for with endurance and grit. 

Rolf was only eight years old and much too young to wield a weapon, but he insisted on serving the mercenaries by helping Mist with chores around the fort and tending the horses for Oscar and Titania. He was cheerful and always full of energy.

In many ways, Mist was the true master of the fort, and it was her, not Greil nor Titania, who kept everything running smoothly. She cleaned the dishes, the floors, the kitchen, and the outhouse. She did the laundry and mending and made lists to plan the shopping. Like Rolf, she helped Titania and Oscar with the horses, and she helped Rhys with his herb garden in addition to doing much of the regular gardening herself. When the company decided to replace the ruined watchtower with wooden scaffolding, it was Mist who managed the project and encouraged everyone until it was finished. Her ability to handle any task cheerfully was astounding, and Soren marveled at how much she’d changed in Elena’s absence. While Ike had pushed memories of his mother away, Mist held on to the ones she had. She hummed the ancient lullabies Elena had once sung, and she always wore the bronze medallion under her shirt. Sometimes Soren saw her clutching it while she sang, and he tried to ignore the memories that crept into his mind. 

Shinon was the exact opposite of Mist—lazy, negative, and ill-tempered. He was a man of few tastes: money, girls, and the chance to stick his opponents full of arrows. He was a talented archer, and Soren assumed that was the only reason Greil kept him around. Of all the mercenaries, Shinon was the only one who treated Soren unkindly. But it quickly became clear he treated everyone that way (except Greil), so Soren did not take it personally.

Gatrie was an armored lance knight who charged into battle dressed from toe to tip in blue-painted steel. He was a better man than Shinon, although the pair appeared fast friends. Gatrie prided himself on his chivalry and had a soft spot for anything female. He was rather gullible too, which placed him at Shinon’s mercy more often than not.

As for Rhys, he was a fragile being and not much of a mercenary since he could hardly stand the sight of blood. But he was the company’s only healer, and his staff was appreciated on the mercenaries’ more difficult jobs. Despite his white robes and Soren’s initial impression, Rhys only dabbled in light magic—making a burst of light to illuminate the dark seemed the best he could do. He was not ordained, although he’d apparently spent some time studying at a distant temple before giving up his ambitions of becoming a priest. He’d returned to this region to care for his sickly parents, and due to a trick of fate involving saving Titania’s life, he’d been welcomed as a mercenary. Rhys was a dreamer, with a wistful imagination and a love for the goddess that Soren was hard-pressed to tolerate. He told himself it was because of this, not because of Gorgov, that he avoided talking to Rhys if he could help it.

The last two members of the company were Ike and Greil. Ike didn’t fight yet but trained with a practice sword almost every day. Greil, on the other hand, was the best of them all. Everyone in the merry band was fiercely loyal to him, and Soren felt the tug of that loyalty too. Like most of the others, he owed Greil for giving him a second chance at life, and he would not soon forget that. But at the same time, he knew Greil’s dark secret, and for that, he could never worship him like the others. 


	12. CHAPTER 12: SELL-SWORDS

Greil insisted he train rigorously before participating in a job, and several frustrating weeks crawled by. Soren had mixed feelings about the prospect of fighting, the potential of killing another person again, and of course the possibility of being maimed or killed himself. But he wanted to get it over with. He just wanted to start. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust your skills as a mage,” Greil explained, when Soren asked when he would be assigned his first mission, “But I know you’ve never fought with a team before. You have to know them, and they have to know you.” Soren thought arguing would appear childish, so he merely nodded and returned to the practice grounds.

Each day he sparred with the other mercenaries on a rotational basis, which meant blunting his wind spells so he wouldn’t injure them. In return, they attacked him with wooden poles and bats. Eventually Soren graduated to real weaponry, and he had to avoid the sharp blades and deadly points or he would have more than a bruise to remember the lesson by.

With food, sleep, and a wealth of teachers, Soren steadily grew stronger and improved his ability to evade their attacks. At the same time, he inadvertently learned exactly what Greil wanted him to. He developed a subconscious understanding of each the mercenaries’ physical abilities and unique style. He learned the reach of their arms, the quickness of their steps, and how their eyes moved when they were about to attack or defend.

“Now that you know them as opponents, you can be a better ally,” Greil explained one day, two months after Soren’s arrival. “If you see a vulnerability, you make up for it. You see a gap in their defense, you fill it. You see a blind spot, you watch it. They’ll do the same for you.” 

“Does that mean I am to be their ally now?” he asked pointedly.

“We’ve been offered a job nearby—bandits, the usual. Nothing too complicated. Titania will lead you. I’m assigning this to Oscar and Boyd as well,” he said with finality. “Be ready to head out in a quarter hour.”

Soren set off to prepare, and Ike ran after him. Now that the moment was finally here, he was a little nervous. Ike seemed to pick up on this.

“I heard Father!” he said excitedly. “Your first mission! How do you feel?”

“My feelings are irrelevant.”

“That scared, huh?” Ike teased.

“The commander said it is a simple job,” Soren returned. “You needn’t wring your hands at the window.” Reminding Ike that he was still not allowed on missions was the best insult he could offer.

Ike pouted to play along, but Soren knew he wasn’t actually offended. “Well, save some bandits for me,” he finally said, “when I’m old enough to fight too.”

“They are not disappearing any time soon,” Soren offered in pessimistic comfort. “A mercenary’s work is never finished. There’s always someone to kill—and someone else to pay for it.”

Ike raised a finger pedantically. “I think you mean someone to _save_.”

“Listen to those whelps pretending they’re philosophers,” Shinon sneered to Gatrie, having overheard the conversation from a bend in the hall.

Ike stopped to glare at him, but Soren kept walking. He and Shinon would butt heads, as usual, and Gatrie would laugh at their antics. But Soren had to pack water, hardtack, and his wind tome before leaving. He felt less nervous now that he’d spoken to Ike, even though he wasn’t quite sure why.

A young boy led them to his village, where bandits had been seizing livestock for over a week. Titania and Oscar were both riding, with the boy sitting in front of Titania in the saddle, but Soren and Boyd were forced to walk alongside.

After a couple hours’ march, they finally arrived and Titania met with the village headman. The boy (who happened to be the headman’s son) stayed outside with the rest, and Soren was relieved he only stared at his forehead half as much as he stared at Boyd’s axes and Oscar’s armor.

When Titania emerged, she led Soren, Oscar, and Boyd around town, searching for men and women matching the headman’s description. Eventually they found a burley drunkard snoring in someone’s hay pile. He had designs drawn in pig’s blood on his face and arms, which were apparently symbols of this particular bandit clan. Titania woke him with a broken nose courtesy of the butt of her poleax, and amid his slurry cursing, she dragged him off the pile and cornered him against the barn.

Oscar drew his lance while holding his and Titania’s reigns. Boyd had a hatchet in each hand, and Soren had his wind tome open. He did not think he seemed particularly intimidating, but as a group they clearly dissuaded this man from fighting back.

“Your camp,” Titania declared with a terrifying grin, “You’re going to show us where it is.”

The booze-addled bandit led them into the woods with his hands bound behind his back and the end of the rope in Titania’s fist. She and Oscar were riding now, and she whispered down from her saddle: “Boyd, Soren, fall back a bit. Keep your eyes and ears out. They’ll have sentries even if this scoundrel doesn’t try to give us away.” She flicked the rope meaningfully, and the man winced.

Before long, their prisoner slowed and started to glance around more feverishly. The forest was oddly quiet, and Soren knew there were people among the trees even if he couldn’t see them.

A twig snapped, and Titania shouted: “They’re here!” Dropping the rope, she kicked her steed into a trot and rounded in a circle. The horse easily wound between the trunks even though Titania was only steering it with her knees. Her hands were occupied by her long poleaxe, which she swept back and forth, cutting down the bandits who’d hardly had a chance to jump from their hiding places.

Oscar had peeled off in an opposite arc and was stabbing his lance into just as many bandits on his side. Soren realized they were working together to protect their two less-experienced comrades from the ambush. 

Boyd stomped up to the first bandit Oscar left for him and lost no time trading blows with the man. He was laughing, and his voice was cracking as he egged them on. The strength of his arms matched his confidence, and he had no problem striking—and killing—his opponents, despite his age. 

Soren didn’t want to be useless, so he fixed his eyes on another bandit behind Boyd and began incanting: “*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me.*”

The bandit was a woman—middle-aged, worn with scars, wrinkles, and saggy flesh that might have once been well-fed but now looked gray under the pig’s-blood swirls. She stood tall while raising and aiming her bow at Boyd. For a split second, Soren wondered what had led her to this life.

But he didn’t really care about the answer, and he unleashed the spell before she could release the string. The winds whipped toward her, sharpened, and sliced through her forearm and wrist. The force wrenched her entire arm to the side, making her shoot the ground and drop the bow. She yelped in pain and surprise, and her confusion left her open. Oscar spun his lance while he cantered by, cutting her across the face and breaking her neck.

Over the next few minutes, Soren delivered five more spells into the bodies of his opponents. None of the attacks produced fatal wounds, but Boyd finished off two of them, Oscar another, and the third gave up and ran away. By this time, the battle had spilled into the nearby clearing where the bandits had made their camp.

Most had been eliminated by now, and those who survived were fleeing. The greedier ones tried to grab items from the campsite before they ran, and this cost them their lives.

“Let the rest go,” Titania ordered, when she deemed the job was done. She dismounted to inspect the general disarray of the camp. Finding a single live chicken clucking anxiously amid the carnage, she tucked it under her arm. “Let’s report back to the village.”

With that, Soren realized he’d survived his first job as a mercenary. The only injuries he could possibly complain about were a bruise on his arm and a slight ache in his ankle from when he’d rolled it stepping over a large root. The entire fight had passed much more quickly than expected, and during the battle itself, he’d not had the time or presence of mind to contemplate his actions. He had merely acted. He hadn’t killed anyone like he had Gorgov, but then again, Gorgov hadn’t been wearing leather armor.

“You good?” Boyd asked, clasping Soren’s shoulder.

The familiar gesture was like an electric shock, and Soren immediately pulled away. “Perfect,” he answered icily. He fell in line behind Oscar’s horse while the four picked their way through the trees, around the bodies, and back to the village. Soren glanced down at the faces of the corpses and found that dead bodies didn’t bother him anymore. That was probably a good thing, if he was going to be a mercenary.

“So then what happened?” Ike asked eagerly.

“We met with the headman,” Soren answered, “who paid less than half the company’s going price and promised to make up the difference at the end of the harvest.” Thinking a moment, he added, “And Titania was allowed to keep the hen she saved.”

Ike laughed as if that were a joke. “Oh, I can’t wait until I can go on missions!”

“Has the Commander given any indication of when that will be?” Soren asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted his friend to join him on the battlefield.

“No,” Ike pouted, crossing his arms. “But Boyd was my age when he started!”

“I do not suggest you follow in Boyd’s footsteps,” Soren advised, recalling the story of how the preteen had run away from the fort in order to follow his brother on a job, leaping into battle although it had been forbidden. “I am sure Greil would not humor such antics a second time.”

Ike sighed resignedly. “Yeah, he’d never let me get away with that.” 

“Your time will come,” Soren offered, although he didn’t know why he was consoling him.

Ike flashed a grin. “Until then, you have to tell me everything about your missions, alright?”

“I suppose I could do that,” Soren agreed.

The day after next, Greil assigned Soren another job, and work was fairly steady after that. Some contracts could be resolved in a day, others required more extensive travel, and still others involved several days or even weeks of work. Occasionally Greil would accept large jobs that required everyone to participate—except Ike, Mist, and Rolf, who were left at the base alone, sometimes for days at a time.

But more often than not, the jobs were small and local. Greil divided their fighting force and only sent who he deemed necessarily. Sometimes he and Titania took well-paying jobs by themselves, or sometimes he would lead Shinon and Gatrie on one mission while Titania, Soren, Rhys, Oscar, and Boyd tackled a separate one at the same time. Most of their clients were poor, but Greil allowed them to pay with whatever they could afford to give and accepted every copper piece as if it were a precious jewel.

Soren slowly adjusted to life with the mercenaries. He used his wages to buy new clothes and shoes and took care to present himself as an adult mercenary rather than a homeless child.

That being said, his memories of living like a wild creature would never leave him. Somedays a smell or sound would trigger them: a perfume worn by someone who’d hit him, the medicinal scent of someone’s home he stolen from, the bay of a hunter’s dog on the trail of a deer, the clatter of a horse’s hooves suddenly quickening on the road behind him.

Each time this happened, Soren would make an excuse to distance himself from the others until he could calm down. He didn’t want anyone to realize his weakness, and he made the conscious effort to integrate the desperate vagrant he’d been with the professional mercenary he was now. As time went by, this became easier.

When not assigned to a particular job, Soren kept himself busy. He trained alongside the others and continued to develop his skill and power as a wind mage. He experimented with new techniques in hand-to-hand combat and simulated different types of traps and ambushes. He brainstormed ways to locate and infiltrate bandit camps and devised other strategies he thought could be useful. On the rare occasions that one of these plans became relevant to a mission, he shared his ideas with Greil and Titania. He was nervous at first, well aware that these experienced warriors may consider his thoughts trivial. But to Soren’s surprise, they always listened and were often willing to employ his strategies, sometimes adding alterations based on their own wealth of experience. 

When Greil discovered Soren was giving Ike objective, detailed accounts after every battle, he asked him to begin writing the official reports. Rhys showed Soren where in the library the documents were kept, and he skimmed through a year’s worth of Greil and Titania’s scrawl. Greil’s reports were often incomplete, as if he’d become distracted halfway through (or sometimes after only writing the date and first couple words), and Titania’s were overly emotional and written in flowery language, as if reliving the battle in her mind had possessed her to write with the tongue of a bard.

Soren applied himself to this new task with zeal, composing complete, factual accounts of each mission and the battle or battles contained therein. As an added measure, he began recording the costs associated with each mission compared to what was earned. When Greil noticed this, he began enlisting his help with managing the company’s finances, and Soren made sure the company did not go too long without paying their outstanding bills in Arbor, where they purchased much of their supplies on credit.

In exchange for these managerial tasks, Soren received an alteration to his contract and an increase of his wage to two and a half shares. Greil paid the mercenaries within a week or two of each job, and Soren took comfort in the regular payments. He saved his coins diligently, never going into town to indulge in frivolous expenses like the others. When he had finally saved enough, he purchased a new spell book. It was a large, beautifully bound volume with crisp pages and leather-bound covers. The leather had been died the color of moss, and the word “Wind” was engraved in the ancient language on the front.

The vast majority of the spells were basic Wind incantations—the ones most often used in combat and the ones he was most accustomed to. But there was also a section of more advanced Elwind spells he could practice with, and there were even a few Fire and Thunder spells tucked in the back.

On the day he purchased the tome, Soren tried the Fire and Thunder incantations with very little success. He could hardly make a spark with either of them. Ike laughed when he saw the little puff of smoke or the tiny blue zap each attempt produced, and Soren grew frustrated. Even as a child, he’d been able to conduct a simple Wind spell after only a couple tries, but it appeared his natural talent only applied to the air element.

“You’ll get it,” Ike consoled when he noticed Soren didn’t consider his failure nearly as humorous. “It will just take practice. In the meantime you always have your wind spells, right?”

Soren gave a resigned nod. “It can take decades of diligent training to master all three elements and become a sage.”

Ike cocked his head and grinned. “So you’ll probably do it in, what, a couple years?”

Soren was flattered by the compliment, but he didn’t want Ike to see the pleasure such an inane comment gave him. “Time will tell,” he said coolly.

Months slipped by, and before Soren knew it, he’d spent two and a half years with the mercenaries—the longest he’d stayed in the same place or with the same people since his apprenticeship to Sileas.

The longest night of the year had passed exactly one week ago, and most of the mercenaries had gone into town to take part in solstice activities. But the holiday had meant nothing to Soren, to whom today was far more important. Long ago, shivering in Galina’s attic, looking at the stars through a hole in the roof, Soren had decided to declare himself four years old. He’d considered this day his birthday every year since, as a measure against the passage of time.

Now he was sixteen years old, but he didn’t share this fact with his comrades. If he did, perhaps Oscar would bake him a cake or Mist knit him a scarf. But Soren did not want such gifts, and neither did he want anyone to think too hard about his age.

The problem was he didn’t look sixteen. Sitting in up in bed, Soren crossed his arms over his knees and stared at the scratches on the opposite wall. He’d been carving his height into the stones behind the door every month since coming here. What had begun as slow yet steady progress had stagnated for over twelve months. He’d always been short; he wasn’t embarrassed by that fact. He could accept that some people simply were.

But watching Ike and Boyd mature, something felt wrong. Tearing his eyes away from the wall, he touched his throat. His voice hadn’t deepened as much as the other boys’, and his larynx wasn’t as pronounced. He didn’t own a razor, and he was far from needing one. Even his skin was clearer, and he didn’t think it was entirely due to his superior hygiene. Soren imagined puberty had come only to abandon him before completing the job. He was no child, but he looked like no man—not even a budding one like Ike.

Soren’s had never cared about appearing particularly masculine; neither did he aspire to virility. He didn’t care what women thought of him (and perhaps that was a separate cause for alarm). He hated being treated like a child, but that wasn’t the problem either. What bothered him most about his current condition was his fear that it made him appear less human, or even worse, that it might indicate he truly was less than human.

He only entertained such a possibility in his darkest moments, and at times like these, he recalled a book he’d found back in Temple Asic’s library. It had been a catalogue of curses and cursed creatures, those acknowledged by the theocracy and those relegated to folklore. Inside he’d found an entry for ‘Branded’.

It meant just what Greil had claimed—the spawn of human and subhuman—and evidently, one of the defining characteristics was infantilism. According to the book, these creatures could take on the visage of children for a decade or more, using their innocent appearances to trick devout people into nurturing evil. By using a child’s face, the demon could worm its way into the heart of civilization and unleash calamity—for a Branded always brought death and destruction in its wake. At the time, Soren hadn’t taken the book seriously (especially considering that it had included entries for all manner of fairytale creatures he knew to be fictitious.) But he never could forget it either.

Since he’d become a mercenary, no one called him a Branded anymore. No one called him cursed, demon, or monster. No one turned him away from their businesses or chased him off their property. No one tried to steal from him, arrest him, use him, abuse him, or humiliate him. People saw him as a mercenary and recognized him as a mage. He’d finally carved out an existence in this world.

And yet the word Branded echoed in his mind without anyone having said it. It was the question he couldn’t help but ask himself when alone in the dark: _Branded? Could I be… Could I really be…Branded?_ He knew he wasn’t a Spirit Charmer, so what did that leave him? ~~~~

A knock sounded on his door, startling him out of his thoughts. His head had fallen back and he’d staring at the ceiling again, but now it jerked up.

“Hey, Soren, you in there?” called Ike’s voice.

“Come in.” Soren swung his legs over the side of the bed. The door opened to block the scratches on the wall, which was for the best.

Ike stepped inside and leaned against the doorframe. “Gosh, Soren,” he said, glancing around. “You really need to do something with your room. I mean it looks exactly like it did the day you moved in!”

“I am not about my waste my wages on décor, or worse—” Soren sniffed in disgust “— _collectable_ s.”

Ike snickered, and Soren wondered why he always seemed to think he was trying to be funny.

“Did you need something? Or did you merely come to critique my skills as a homemaker?”

This also made Ike grin as if having heard a good joke. “Yeah,” he answered, “Titania wants you down in the yard. She’s getting a group together for a tracking job: her, Shinon, and you if you’re up for it.”

Titania and Shinon could be a nasty pairing, and Soren was not looking forward having to listen to them criticize each other nonstop on a lengthy tracking mission. But it couldn’t be helped. “I’m coming,” he replied, promptly retrieving his wind tome from the bedside table.

“She says she’s sorry it’s late. The job just came in, and I guess she wants to get started before the trail gets any colder.”

“I don’t mind,” Soren assured and followed him out. In truth, Ike had brought a welcome distraction. He would much rather spend the final hours of his fake birthday on a mission than lying in bed worrying about his stunted growth.

In the following weeks, even when his birthday was long behind him, his fears and questions would not fade away. He didn’t want to leave the Greil Mercenaries, but he found himself wishing he could go somewhere to find answers. He wanted to go to Melior.

He and the capital city hadn’t parted on good terms back when Soren had been rejected by both an esteemed academy and a seedy gang, and yet it was probably the only place in all of Crimea that would have the resources he needed. He’d already read his way through most of the books in Greil’s modest collection, and there was nothing he could buy in Arbor that would give him real information on the Branded. But he wanted to understand them—in order to prove once and for all that he was not one of them—and to do that, he would have to go to the Royal Library of Crimea. The challenge was finding an excuse to get himself there.

This past year, two of the mercenaries had taken a paid leave of absence: Boyd and Rhys. Boyd had trained in the mountains with a self-proclaimed ‘berserker’ known for teaching his style to a select group of students. Rhys had taken a similar furlough to continue his study of stave healing and light magic. He’d attended a temple in a nearby city, and Greil had covered the expense. However, Boyd had ended his apprenticeship after only a couple months upon hearing Rolf was sick with a bad case of the flu. He’d rushed home, and even after Rolf had recovered, he didn’t leave again. Rhys had also given up his studies, after discovering he didn’t have the constitution to remained secluded in the temple compound, unable to visit his family. These sabbaticals may have been largely failures, but they did set a precedent.

Eventually Soren worked up the courage to approach Greil with a proposition of his own: he would study magic and strategy for four months with the Mercenaries of Fayre, a large group stationed just outside Melior. Greil was surprisingly amenable to the proposal and promised to reach out to the commander of the Fayre Mercenaries as soon as possible. Soren didn’t like lying to him, but it was necessary. And if Greil realized Soren had ulterior motives, he didn’t show it.

Now he just had to wait and hope the other company would accept him as a temporary hire. As the weeks ticked by, Soren found he grew increasingly attached to this plan, and he feared the proposal would be rejected.

But finally the return letter arrived, and to his relief, the Fayre commander had agreed. Soren packed a bag and bid farewell to Ike and the others. He felt a twinge of sadness at leaving his friend again, but he promised himself it wouldn’t be forever.

“Train hard. Learn everything you can, and come back to us,” Ike said, firmly clasping his forearm in a way that Soren only allowed him to do.

“I will.” Soren squeezed back. “But you should heed your own advice. Perhaps then Greil would actually let you in the field.”

Ike released his arm and frowned. “I do train hard! And anyway, it’s not a matter of more practice. I’m ready.”

“Hm, just keep telling yourself that,” Soren replied, and without another word of banter, he set his feet on the path leaving the fort. He knew Ike and the others were still waving him off, but he resisted the urge to look back.


	13. CHAPTER 13: PATH OF RADIANCE

The Mercenaries of Fayre boasted three times as many able bodies as the Greil Mercenaries, and there were no children living among them. That was probably for the best, because the men and women of this company were far from ideal role models. Their commander, a man named Monterrey (or simply Terry behind his back) was quite different from Greil too. He didn’t join his mercenaries in battle, was selective in the jobs he would accept, and only chose the ones that promised the greatest profit.

The biggest difference between the two companies, however, was the sense of competition between the members. Rather than being paid a regular wage, these mercenaries were rewarded for the number of kill assists, assisted kills, and solo kills they accomplished on each mission. The bloodier the job, the more they were paid. Killing a healer was worth extra points, which were compounded relative to the length of the battle after the time of the healer’s death. So if a mercenary was lucky enough to encounter and slaughter an unarmed cleric pressganged into a bandit company, they would then do their best to inhibit their comrades’ kills and keep the battle going on as long as possible while also winning additional kills themselves. Commander Terry’s deputies paid close attention to each mission to help confirm that the self-reported kills were accurate, and half the time out of battle was spent being called into the deputies’ office to corroborate claims prior to payout.

Soren could hardly believe what a mess the entire system was—not to mention rigged. It did not take him long to realize certain mercenaries banded together to corroborate false claims and take ownership of kills that were not their own. Luckily, Soren did not have to resort to the same scheming. Greil was still paying his wages while Soren fought for Terry free of charge.

He still pulled his weight on missions, but he never sought blood unnecessarily or volunteered for extra work. When not on a job, he trained with the Fayre Mercenaries’ other mages and explored Melior’s numerous libraries and bookstores. But he was really just biding his time until he would finally be granted approval to use the Royal Library.

Commander Terry had submitted a request on his behalf, but because entering the library meant passing through the castle walls and coming close to the palace, it could take weeks to be approved. Soren knew a mercenary wishing to study magic theory was not a high-priority reason for getting in, so he forced himself to be patient.

After three months, Soren was finally given the appropriate documentation. Now he frequented the Royal Library in his every spare moment. When accompanied by the Fayre mages, he could not pursue the scholarship he wished. But his standoffish attitude hadn’t made him any friends here, and usually the mages were more than willing to leave him unchaperoned. That left only the librarians, the guards, and his fellow readers to worry about. But the place was much emptier after sundown, so Soren began organizing his study sessions late at night. He would arrive back at the mercenaries’ base only a couple hours before dawn, utterly exhausted, but he felt he was running out of time now to find answers. 

On the fifth of these late-nights, Soren made his way to the library more determined than ever to find out what the mark on his forehead meant. If not that, then at least he would find proof that he couldn’t be a cursed Branded.

He presented his documentation to the guards, who grudgingly waved him through the gates. Then he walked to the library under the watchful eyes of the guards at their posts around the castle. They seemed tenser than usual, and there were more than Soren had seen on previous nights. He wondered if an important noble or foreign dignitary was visiting and hoped it wouldn’t interfere with his studies.

The library’s candlelit interior was quiet and calm. A few other scholars read by lanternlight or snoozed on their open books, but Soren was not concerned with them. They would probably leave in the next couple hours. He approached the front desk, where a single librarian was nodding off. His head jerked whenever it threatened to fall, and he snorted when he saw Soren approaching.

“What- er, good evening,” he said, clearly trying to rouse himself.

Soren presented his documents again. “I am a mage for the Mercenaries of Fayre,” he introduced himself, as he always did. “My commander ordered me to carry out research here.”

“A bit late for research isn’t it?” the old man sighed.

“Perhaps for an old man.”

The librarian scowled and grumbled about the ‘disrespectful youth of today’ while fumbling to check the oil level in his lantern. “What can I help you find then?”

“I will find it myself.” Soren took one of the candles from his desk and set off down the rows of shelves and ladders. The library was huge, with bookshelves that sprang high into the vaulted ceiling. There were islands of tables and archipelagoes of desks. There were mazes of cabinets and cases holding rare scrolls. But Soren was no longer awed by the grandeur of it. He knew his way around and went immediately to the section about subhumans (or ‘laguz’ as the texts often called them).

Although Soren intended to return to the base well before dawn, his growing frustration robbed him of his prudence. Hours slipped by, and although he skimmed through book after book, scroll after scroll, reading anything he could find not just about the Branded, but also Spirit Charmers, tattoos and birthmarks, slow aging and dwarfism, and lore surrounding supposedly cursed children. His investigations, however, were fruitless.

As a consolation, Soren began pilfering any useful things he came across, including star atlases, various maps, and some misplaced pages of wind tomes with spells still intact. These he stowed away in his satchel. It had been a long time since Soren had stolen anything, but he didn’t have any qualms about it just now.

The sun began to rise, but Soren continued to work. He hadn’t slept, eaten, or drunk a sip of water all night. But he ignored his discomfort just as he ignored the first rays of sunlight filtering through the window and falling on his little research nook. He didn’t care about avoiding the eyes of other scholars; he didn’t care about keeping up appearances with the Mercenaries of Fayre. Only answers mattered. He was determined to stay all day if he had to.

But then the building shook as if hit by a sudden earthquake, and Soren forgot about his research entirely. The quake was followed by a thunderous roar that rose in pitch until becoming a terrible shriek. Soren clamped his hands over his ears and lurched to the window. Servants, soldiers, priests, knights, and nobles were all screaming and running in the courtyard below.

Another tremor hit, and bricks cascaded in front of the window, causing him to jump back. An enormous shadow swept overhead, flying from the library’s roof to the spire of the temple. Against the light of the rising sun, Soren saw a giant reptilian beast clamoring for purchase against the sliding shingles. But he didn’t stay to examine it; he knew he should already be running.

He grabbed his satchel, leaving books and scrolls strewn over the desk, and ran to the main exit, where he joined the throng of librarians, servants, and scholars also attempting to flee. Following the crowd, he quickly discovered people were being evacuated from the castle, which was already up in flames. A swarm of dracoknights was sweeping down on the soldiers frantically trying to man the battlements and Royal Knights defending stranded nobles.

Once out of the castle, Soren hoped he would have a better idea what was going on, but he did not. Smoke was rising from the eastern part of the city, and he heard the sounds of battle in the streets. Like most of the fleeing people, Soren headed west. He dashed through the fields surrounding the castle, and when he dared look over his shoulder, he saw black-armored cavalrymen pouring from the city streets into the fields, where a meager line of white-armored soldiers had managed to assemble an opposition.

Soren didn’t watch them get slaughtered, instead turning his face forward to look where he was going. Once in the streets of Melior, he struggled to avoid being trampled by the crowds of terrified civilians. The battle had not yet reached this far, but news of it had, and no one understood what was happening. Crimean paladins cantered here and there, shouting for people to exit the city—to grab their families and flee by order of the king. 

“What is happening?” a woman beseeched a young, nervous-looking soldier. “What’s going on?”

The soldier stared wide-eyed at her. “Daein is attacking!” he finally erupted, and people froze to listen. “They’re already here! King Ashnard rides at the head of his army, on the back of a black dragon!”

An old woman released a mournful cry, and some children started babbling incoherently to their parents, asking what the soldier meant. The parents didn’t answer their children. They merely picked them up or swung them onto their shoulders. Some people were attempting to take animals and carts with them, but the majority were running with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Soren did not stay to watch their efforts. He continued running until he was out of the city, and here he flagged down the first wagon that came his way and caught a ride with a half dozen other fleeing people.

Catching his breath, he watched the burning city grow smaller. The Daein army was oozing into it like a flood, and before Soren’s eyes the Crimean army came charging out of the smoldering outskirts. They rounded in an arc, pennants flapping, as they attempted to broadside Daein’s left flank. But even from this distance, Soren knew Crimea didn’t have a chance. Daein had all but completely taken the capital.

A moment later, the road dipped into a valley, and the city was lost from view. A little while after that, the wagon turned down a forest road, and the trees gave the illusion of safety. People started to whisper and cry about what had happened. But Soren knew they weren’t safe yet. If the Daein army had already reached the capital, their soldiers could be anywhere. He needed to get back to the Arbor and notify the Greil Mercenaries as quickly as possible: Crimea was at war.

“Soren’s back!” Mist’s voice rang out like a bell from the watchtower. He saw her twist around and disappear, undoubtedly sliding down the ladder.

Soren had been running for the past hour, and he wasn’t about to stop now. Despite the five days of exhaustion weighing on him, he didn’t stop until he was within the training yard. Trying to catch his breath, he rested his hands on his knees. “Where’s Greil?” he demanded in a ragged breath.

Rhys, who’d risen from his garden to stare, answered: “Uh, he’s in the mess hall…”

Everyone was staring in surprise and confusion. He wasn’t due back for another month, and he didn’t run places unnecessarily. But Soren couldn’t afford to explain the situation to everyone individually, so he forced himself to jog the rest of the way into the fort.

Greil was sitting at the long table with papers strewn around him and a mug of mead in his hand. But his concentration broke when Soren reached him, and he immediately knitted his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Crimea is under attack.” Soren panted. “Daein.”

Greil’s surprise showed for only a second. Then he gave a single grim nod. “I will get everyone together, then you must tell your story.”

Titania strode purposefully into the room, obviously having followed him from the yard. “What is it?” she demanded.

Greil turned to her. “Troubling news indeed. Gather the troops.”

“Yes, Commander.” She saluted and left immediately.

Soren’s legs felt like lead, but he refused to sit down yet. Greil was sweeping up his papers, and Ike and Mist rushed in. Seeing Soren, Ike’s eyes lit up, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Greil cut him off, “Ike, if you’ve got time to waste you’ve got time to work. Get over to the briefing room.”

“Yes, sir,” Ike said resignedly, but before he passed back through the door, Soren heard him mutter under his breath: “What’s going on around here?”

Mist helped her father with the papers, and they followed him out. Greil’s and Titania’s voices were echoing throughout the keep, ordering everyone to the briefing room for an emergency meeting.

Soren decided he should catch up to Ike and immediately found him dragging his feet in the hall (perhaps waiting for Soren to find him). “Bad news,” Soren said when he reached him, answering his muttered question from before. “Something big is happening, and we need to formulate a plan of action.”

Ike’s face lit up. “Soren!”

“Hello, Ike.” He resisted the urge to mirror the smile. “Long time, no see.” Running his eyes over his friend, he could hardly believe how much he’d grown these past few months. His sleeves were ripped from the elbow down, and his muscles looked much more defined where they pressing against the remnants of the fabric. There was a bandage wrapped around his left forearm and a bruise on his jaw. Most noticeably of all, he had a sword—a real sword—hanging from his belt.

Soren wondered what he’d missed, but now wasn’t the time to ask. The fort had become an overturned anthill, and mercenaries were running down the halls, strapping on weapons and armor as they made for the briefing room. He and Ike let themselves be swept along with the rest, but they didn’t enter when they arrived. Instead, Ike stepped to the side and Soren loitered with him, assuming he wanted to continue their conversation without involving the three green-haired brothers already sitting at the round table.

“I’m happy to see you’re back.” Ike said, while Titania, Gatrie, and Shinon filed past. “But what happened? I thought you were going to be studying for a while longer.”

Soren shook his head. “It’s a long story,” he sighed, watching Rhys and Mist enter.

Next Greil strode into the room and took his place at the table, although he didn’t sit. “What’s the hold up?” he called. “Get over here now!”

“Let’s go. I’ll fill you in later,” Soren whispered, although he supposed he would probably be filling in everyone in a second.

The only two seats left were the one next to Titania and the one next to Greil. Greil indicated that he should join him, so Soren obediently stepped forward. Like Greil, he did not sit down.

“You probably remember that Soren’s been training with another mercenary group,” Greil began, “Well he’s back now, and he has some unbelievable news.”

“And what news is that?” Ike asked, clearly frustrated.

Soren could finally answer: “It’s Crimea and Daein. They’ve gone to war.”

His words were met by a few tiny gasps, but mostly by stunned silence. “War? It…it can’t be!” Mist called out, and that was a sign for everyone to start talking over one another.

Greil made a sweeping gesture with both hands to silence them. “That is why I’ve called everyone here. Soren has more information. Go ahead, Soren.”

“Alright.” Taking a steadying breath, Soren extracted a slightly wrinkled map of Crimea (one of the ones he’d taken from the library) and unfolded it onto the table. “Take a look at this.”

Greil noticed its good quality. “Ah, it’s a map of Crimea, quite detailed by the look of it.”

“Yes.” Soren hoped that Greil’s explanation wasn’t necessary and that everyone here could at least recognize a map of their own country. If not, this was going to be a long war. “This is Melior, Crimea’s capital. Our base of operations is right about here.” He pointed to Arbor. “Everything started five days ago. I needed to do some research, so I went to the archives of Melior’s Royal Library.” (Of course, he would not elaborate on the nature of his research.) “Without warning, the scream of a terrible beast—a wyvern perhaps—rent the air, and the building was rocked by a tremor. I rushed outside and saw wave after wave of knights, cavalry, and wyvern riders, each clad in glistening ebon armor, black as night.”

“The Daein Army?” Greil asked, but it did not sound like a question.

“Correct.”

“Was there provocation?” he asked next, although once again, it already sounded like he knew the answer.

Soren shook his head. “As you know, relations between Crimea and Daein have never been…friendly. However, the past centuries have seen only minor skirmishes, nothing approaching an attack of this size. Daein laid the capital to waste. I’ve never seen destruction on this scale before...” Even Greil’s massacre could not compare to the screams and flames rising from Melior, and Soren shook his head to banish the memory. “To accomplish such a feat, they must have dismantled Crimean intelligence and communication networks. I believe the crown had no warning whatsoever.”

After a few moments of silence, Titania spoke up. “A swift attack, devastating and brutal…a daring gambit, indeed.”

“But if it succeeds, a very well-chosen one at that.” Greil nodded. “Yes, the King of Daein would not hesitate to employ such treacherous tactics.” He turned to Soren. “What happened next?”

Soren recounted what he’d seen and learned: “King Crimea’s brother deployed the Crimean army to meet the attack. The king ordered his people to flee the city before the battle reached them. Fearing the worst, I fled and made my way here.”

Greil sighed. “So we don’t know how the tides of battle flow now, do we? That’s alright. Word of war cannot have traveled far yet. We may well be the first ones who know of it out here. You did well to bring us this information, Soren. I know some risk was involved.”

“It was nothing,” he lied. He had traveled night and day, running whenever he’d had the energy. He’d hitched rides on whatever cart or wagon would take him, and he’d urged them to push their horses into a gallop if they didn’t yet know of the invasion. Squadrons of Daein cavalry and dracoknights had already begun spilling into the countryside, targeting military outposts, demanding the surrender of the militia, and terrorizing peasants for good measure. The roads had not always been safe, and Soren had cut cross-country to reach the base as soon as possible. The way Greil was looking at him now, with pride and gratitude, Soren wondered if he realized all that.

“Daein has invaded Crimea…” Titania shook her head in disbelief. “We may be mercenaries, but this still affects us.”

“What are we going to do?” Ike asked, looking from her to Greil.

“That is the question of the day,” Greil sighed. “How do you see it, Titania?”

Soren could have predicted her reply word-for-word. “Crimea,” she said warmly, “is the closest thing we have to a homeland. The Crimean royal family and noble houses have been generous to us with many lucrative jobs.” She was of course referring to the rare well-paying jobs she and Greil sometimes carried out. “From a moral standpoint as well as a business one, it is in our best interest to help Crimea.”

“And you, Soren?” Greil turned to him.

“I agree on one point: we are mercenaries.” He shook his head at the foolishness of Titania’s words. “We are not Crimea’s private militia. No coin has crossed our palms, so I think we should stay out of it.”

“So you would have us sit and watch as Crimea is overrun?” He spoke in an even tone, but Soren could tell he was already on Titania’s side.

“I would,” he answered anyway. “Daein’s troops are superior in both numbers and morale. The chances of a Crimean victory are slim indeed.”

“But Crimea is ruled by King Ramon who is known throughout the land for his wisdom,” Titania argued. “And his brother, Duke Renning, is said to possess peerless valor and courage. Daein may not find victory so easily.”

“Valor and courage are for children’s tales,” Soren returned. “In terms of military prowess, Daein’s King Ashnard is every bit Lord Renning’s equal. Victory will hinge on troops’ numbers and supplies, and Daein is superior in both. I think the outcome is painfully obvious.”

Titania’s cheeks flared red to match her hair. “Curse you, Soren! Crimea is not doomed! If they can turn aside Daein’s initial thrust and turn it into a test of endurance…”

Soren folded his arms. “With the Crimean army both demoralized and ill-prepared? They simply will not be able to hold out that long.”

“Alright. That’s enough, both of you. I hear what you’re saying. However we must ascertain the current situation before we decide on any action. We’ll send a scouting party to get a closer look at Melior. Ike, I want you in charge of this. Assemble your men and get going.”

Soren was baffled by Greil’s use of ‘your men’ and apparently so was Ike. “What? Me?” he asked in surprise.

Judging by the sword he now carried, Soren could deduce Ike was finally allowed on missions, but he never would have guessed Ike had begun leading them as well.

“Titania will accompany you as an advisor,” Greil added with finality.

“Commander, you must be joking!” Shinon exclaimed, standing from his chair. Apparently he was just as surprised as Soren and Ike himself. “He’s just a boy, and he’s had barely more than a _taste_ of battle. What do you expect a whelp like him to accomplish?”

Greil narrowed his eyes. “Ah, Shinon, since you’re so concerned, you can go as well.”

“Wait, that’s not what I-” Shinon pouted. “Ugh, blast.”

“Now who else?” Greil mused. “Gatrie, Rhys, and Soren. That should do.”

Although he would have rather rested, Soren knew he couldn’t refuse this assignment. He was the only with knowledge of the invasion and the state of the roads.

No one else argued, but Ike still didn’t seem convinced he was the right choice for the job. “Father, wait, why do you want me-”

“That is an order. Get moving. There is no time to waste.”

Ike’s gaze dropped to the tabletop. “Yes, sir.”

Greil was the first to leave the room, and Titania was right beside him. “I’m going out for a bit. I want you to give Ike some direction,” he said, and Titania pulled to a halt.

“Understood,” she replied with a firm salute.

“…Yes, sir,” Ike murmured again, as if in a daze. Everyone left the room except for those assigned to the scouting party. Taking a deep breath, Ike finally stood. “Pack what you need, and be ready at the front gate in, uh, a quarter hour.”

Soren drank his fill of water and ate a bit of cold food while the others packed provisions for the road. Mist (ever empathetic) offered to pack a bag for him so he could have a moment’s rest before heading out again. He changed his clothes and exchanged his boots for the extra pair he’d left at the base. He hadn’t entered his room in months, but he didn’t have time to feel nostalgic, even if he were so inclined.

The scouting party soon departed, and Soren found himself traveling back the way he’d come. They marched for a day before coming across evidence of a skirmish on a woodland road. Daein soldiers in black armor, Crimean soldiers in white armor, and Royal Knights in lavender, emerald, yellow, silver, and navy littered the road or lay among the trees. A small but well-crafted carriage lay broken in a ditch, with the door smashed in and one of the wheels broken off. Soren suspected it must have belonged to a fleeing noble. The surviving horses—some Daein, some Crimean—wandered the woods. Most were marked with ghastly wounds, and Rhys and Titania tried to coax them. But they were still skittish from the battle and kept their distance.

“Let’s rest a while,” Ike announced, although he still seemed self-conscious about being the one giving orders. “Look around, and we’ll see if we can’t tell who won here.”

“An excellent idea,” Titania agreed, “Perhaps this will give us a clue as to how Crimea is faring in the war.” Soren did not think a single battlefield could support such a generalization. But any information could be useful, so he kept his mouth such. “Make a perimeter and work inward. Be wary of survivors.”

Soren, Shinon, and Gatrie each moved in a different direction to do as she commanded. Meanwhile Titania and Rhys converged on Ike with encouraging voices. Soren had heard them whispering about a pep-talk they wanted to give him, and apparently now was the time.

Ignoring their conversation, Soren turned his ears to the quiet forest and the subdued sound of crows plucking at corpses. He judged the battle must have occurred only a few hours ago. They were still far from Melior and this wasn’t a well-travelled thoroughfare, so the Daein squadron must have been pursuing this carriage and its entourage specifically. The number of Royal Knights indicated that the noble must have been someone important. Taking a look inside the carriage, Soren saw the upholstery bore the emblem of the royal family, but there was no sign of the occupant.

He continued down the road and then cut in an arc through the woods before returning to Ike. The number of dead Daeins surpassed the Crimeans, but Soren could not determine from the footprints if anyone had left this battlefield alive.

While scanning the ground, his mind turned to Greil and the fact that he’d sent them out here with Ike in command and very little direction. Blindly wandering and hoping to gain insight into the tides of war was not an effective tactic. Soren suspected Greil never intended for them to lay eyes on Melior. He may want them to accidentally trip in trouble, and if not that, he probably wanted Ike to see the horror of war and be inspired to action.

“How do things look over there, Soren?” Ike asked, when he returned from his circuit. He looked a little happier, which meant Titania and Rhys’s plan must have been a success.

“Same as here,” Soren reported. “There are corpses strewn everywhere. There are quite a lot of them, especially when you consider how far we are from the capital.”

Titania joined them, with Rhys at her side. “Are they Crimean?”

“Judging by the armor—” Rhys glanced queasily at the nearest body “—the vast majority of the dead are Daein soldiers.”

“So Crimea has the upper hand?” Ike asked hopefully.

“Just the opposite, I think,” Soren answered. “The Crimean soldiers were members of the Imperial Guard. That means King Ramon—or another member of the royal family—was on the move when Daein soldiers fell on them.”

“Could it have been Lord Renning?” Titania asked in distress.

Soren shook his head. She should have had the sense to conclude it was not; she was a former Royal Knight after all. “No. As long as the Crimean army still draws breath, Lord Renning will not leave their command. Perhaps another member of the court.”

“Yo!” Gatrie jogged up to them, his armor clanking loudly. “We’ve got Daein soldiers moving in on our location! And they don’t look happy!”

Shinon heard the commotion and came loping back through the trees. Titania mounted her steed, and the mercenaries instinctively regrouped in a defensive formation. A small contingent of soldiers appeared. Their commander’s black armor was festooned with brass, but Soren suspected he was still of a low rank. He shouted from afar: “You there! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Titania rested her reins on her lap and raised both hands. Her body language was complacent, despite the ferocity of her glare. “We’re no one you need-”

“You’re armed! Heed me! Drop your weapons and surrender! Act quickly, or else!”

Shinon scowled and stroked the fletching of the arrows slung on his back. “Listen to me, fool. You’re making a mistake. We’re not-”

“Ah, not going to cooperate, eh?” the commander smiled. “In that case, ready your weapons!”

“ _Tsk!_ ” Titania drew her poleax. “Headstrong fools!”

Soren shook his head. “Getting caught up in some skirmish is not part of the plan…” he muttered, even though he suspected Greil had intended this. He may not have wanted them harmed, but wanted them on the side of Crimea in this war, one way or another.

“They’re obviously not going to listen to us. Greil Mercenaries, get ready to fight!” Ike called. The hesitancy was gone from his voice. 

The commander planted his spear at his feet and chuckled. His men all followed his example. Evidently, they would wait for the mercenaries to accept the challenge—the picture of good sport, and yet they snickered arrogantly.

“Alright, Ike,” Shinon shot him a sideways sneer. “Let’s see how you handle the role of captain. Well? What are your orders, boy? We’ll do what you say, so long as you hurry up and spit it out!”

Under his barrage, Ike’s confidence crumpled. “I know. I know! I’m thinking! Give me a moment will you, Shinon?”

Soren sympathized with his friend and resented Shinon for wasting their time. He tried to catch Ike’s eye, having devised a suitable plan the moment the soldiers had appeared. But if he spoke up now, he would jeopardize Ike’s standing in the minds of his peers.

“ _Bah_ ,” Shinon spat, “Useless! We’d be better led with Mist than this soft, untested whelp.”

“Let’s see.” Ike glanced around. “We’re in the middle of the road, and there’s not much cover.” He caught Soren’s eyes but didn’t seem to understand their meaning. However, he did find something logical to say: “Soren and Rhys are vulnerable, so we have to protect them from enemy attacks…right?”

Ike was no brilliant tactician, but he could at least see the basics. “That’s a sound a sound strategy, Ike,” he agreed. “I can attack from behind your defenses. Good thinking.” He didn’t want to coddle his friend, but right now he needed all the help he could get.

Ike seemed to brighten. “Do you mean that?”

Soren hardened his gaze. They didn’t have time for further discussion.

Shinon rolled his eyes.

“Um…” Ike returned his attention to the soldiers awaiting them. They were smiling, expecting an easy slaughter. His eyes narrowed into a glare. “Alright! Let’s do that then.”

“Everyone, positions! You know what to do.” Titania looped her reigns around one arm and pointed her axe at the soldiers. Her hair danced like flames around her face.

The enemy commander released a bark of laughter and signaled his men to march forward in an attack formation.

Gatrie hefted his spear and roared: “Bring it _on!_ ”

Shinon fell back slightly, behind Gatrie’s broad back. Pointing his bow high, he wasted no time releasing arrows. Each one easily passed over their shield wall and fell on a soldier.

Rhys moved even farther back so he would be out the range of the enemy archers returning fire. But his eyes were alert for any sign he was needed.

Soren stepped behind Ike and did his best to avoid the enemy volleys. He stuck his thumb between the pages of his tome, the spells ready on his lips.

Ike had two swords on his hip now, and he drew the new one Mist had given him on behalf of Greil before they’d left the base. He held it with a grace of purpose Soren had never seen in him before. It hit him now that his friend had become a killer—like Soren and the rest. While he’d been away, seeking answers he never found, he had missed Ike’s first mission, his first kill. Had Ike needed comfort or guidance when it happened? Or had he been more prepared than Soren that day in the temple? Now was not the time to ask such questions, nor would it ever be.


	14. CHAPTER 14: THE PRINCESS

Titania kicked her steed to meet the ebon soldier with steel-shod hooves. Gatrie lunged forward, skewering a Daein spearman whose face twisted in surprise at how easily he’d navigated under his flimsy round shield. Ike pushed into the opening the pair made, swiping right and left with his blade, and the shield wall broke instantly. In the chaos that ensued, Soren cast wind spells into any enemy he could reach.

He kept his eye on Ike’s back, afraid the young swordsman would become overwhelmed and need support. But after a few minutes it became clear his supervision wasn’t necessary. Ike’s prowess with the sword had developed significantly during Soren’s absence (or perhaps he’d only ever needed a real battle to bring out his skill). He was strong and fast, slashing and stabbing through flesh and chainmail. He fought in Greil’s unique style, switching hands effortlessly and confusing his opponents, who struggled to predict the next strike.

His new blade was a hand-and-a-half sword, and just as often as he’d exchange left for right, he would use both to provide more force and leverage at critical moments. Watching him was like watching a smaller Greil—although Ike was admittedly more conservative in his strikes. He hesitated periodically, as if this were still a training match and he was assessing his work before launching another bout. 

Despite Shinon’s criticism and Soren’s own doubts, Ike led them well. He barked orders over the sound of clashing metal, and (with some quick suggestions from Soren and Titania) he embraced a cautious tactic: staying at the edge of the enemies’ range and forcing the soldiers to come to them.

This strategy may have been distasteful to a more hot-headed commander, but Ike demonstrated patience. The battle was more drawn-out than necessary, but that gave the mercenaries control over the pace. They made gradual progress, picking off the advancing soldiers at a rate they could sustain.

The Daein commander waited behind his men, watching instead of joining the fight. But even from this distance, Soren could see his face, and he was clearly disturbed at the sight of his men dying in front of his eyes while the unflagging mercenaries only received minor injuries. When the tide of the battle turned and the mercenaries began steadily advancing instead of retreating, the commander’s face looked nauseated.

Soren unleashed a Wind spell into the breastplate of an enemy swordsman, and the heavy gusts rent the metal, compressing the man’s chest. Gasping and clawing as if he could prise the twisted iron away, he fell to his knees. Gatrie lost no time plunging his spear straight down through the man’s exposed neck.

Soren turned to his next victim: a bowman trying to limp away. He was clutching a wound in his thigh (a gift from Ike), but as soon as he was far enough, he released his leg and tried to stand straighter. He fumbled to knock an arrow, while blood flowed freely down to his feet. He was easy prey, and Soren chanted a precise spell to finish him off.

But distracted by this mark, he didn’t notice the other archer who’d retreated to the trees on the opposite side of the road. The unforeseen arrow came from behind, ripping an inch into his left arm and passed through. The pain was searing and immediately clouded his mind. He barely managed to hiss the final words to the spell, but it was still a success. The blade-like winds coursed toward the injured bowman, filleting his face and neck with parallel slices.

Even before he hit the ground, Soren twisted to face his assailant. But to his relief, the Daein archer was sitting slumped against a tree trunk with one of Shinon’s arrows protruding between his eyes.

Soren clutched his injured arm and retreated cautiously, glancing around for Rhys. Not a moment later, the cleric appeared beside him and lowered his staff to the wound. He healed it as quickly as he could while Titania kept enemies away. Since Soren didn’t need his arm to fight, he held his tome in his good hand and aided Titania with his spells. He used large, blunted gusts to push or knock down any soldiers trying to gang up on her, and this allowed her to make short work of them.

Rhys had soothed the pain in his arm to nothing but a dull ache. A shallow puncture still oozed on either side, but there was now a knot of fresh muscle tissue between them to fill the arrow’s hole. Raising his arm, he gestured that the job was done and Rhys should move back to a safer distance.

His caution was not entirely necessary. The Daein numbers had continued to dwindle, and the mercenaries were routing anyone who remained by the commander’s side. However, just as Soren dared to think this was wrapping up nicely, two cavalrymen rounded their horses and began galloping down the road. Soren knew they intended to report the altercation to a larger force, and apparently Titania did too. 

“Oh no you don’t!” she called, racing past the flustered commander in pursuit. One of the horsemen rounded on her, meeting her axe with his own pike. He blocked her ferocious swipes, until Titania managed to behead both him and his steed in the same fluid motion.

The other horse was already gone. Soren cursed the escaping scout and the mercenaries’ slow reaction. Turning his attention back to the commander, Soren saw that he’d been finally forced to use his spear. He was currently squared off against Ike, who was panting hard. His sword gleamed red with blood, and he was glaring at the commander as if he were the villain of his childhood games.

They exchanged angry words Soren couldn’t hear over the clashing of metal and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. Then they traded three quick blows, and Soren ran to back Ike up.

The Daein commander had clearly kept his strongest men as his own personal guards, and these were far harder for the mercenaries to defeat. Shinon was head-butted by a soldier’s metal helm, and he crumpled to the ground in dizziness. Rhys ran to help even though the soldier was still standing with a war hammer in his hand.

Giving up any chance to chase down the other horseman, Titania spurred her horse to reach the pair faster. She successfully lopped off the enemy’s head, saving them both. The body fell on Shinon, who’d been struggling to regain his footing despite the lump growing on his forehead and the blood running into his eyes. Rhys shoved the corpse away and began healing the swelling in Shinon’s head before he lost consciousness.

Soren was not particularly worried for either Rhys or Shinon’s lives this late in the battle, but he was frustrated by Titania’s antics. Not only had she abandoned the scout, but she had also put too much distance between herself and Ike. He and the commander were circling each other now, each bleeding but neither morbidly so.

Soren finally reached them and lingered for a moment, wondering if he should help Ike overpower the man or merely keep the remaining soldiers at bay. He settled for the latter, but kept an eye on their battle. He would be right here if Ike needed him.

Twisting the spear in his hand, the Daein commander made a convincing feint, and Ike felt for it. Lunging to the side, he left himself wide open for the opposite end of the spear to come around, slashing from his ribs to his knee in one clean slice.

Ike fell to the dirt, crying out his pain and surprise. But Soren refused the Daein a finishing blow. He’d already primed a Wind spell to help Gatrie, but now he sent it hurdling toward the commander. The spell was poorly aimed, but it successfully cut the air and earth between the commander and Ike, causing the man to leap back in surprise.

The quick movement caused a wound in his side to tear open, and he cupped it with his free hand. “A mage, eh? I’ll have to keep my guard up around you, no matter how young you look.”

Soren didn’t respond, but he did keep an eye on him while lending a hand to Ike, who hissed under his breath while getting to his feet. A quick glance confirmed the long cut was relatively shallow. No main arteries had been hit, and Ike’s guts weren’t spilling out.

The Daein commander didn’t attack them, instead fumbling under his armor for a vulnerary that he downed in a gulp and tossed aside. New strength seemed to surge into him, and he roared confidently, striking his spear against the ground. The wound Ike had given him no longer seemed as bothersome, if it was even there at all. 

“You forced this combat,” Soren said coolly. “We cannot allow you to return home. Are you ready to die?”

Ike hefted his sword and widened his stance, and although Soren was glad to see he could still fight, he wished he would take it easy until Rhys could attend his wound.

The Daein commander was clearly not threatened by two teenagers (and Soren couldn’t blame him). He rushed forward in a sudden charge.

“*Spirits of wind-” Soren incanted in an even, authoritative tone. He raised both his hands, with the wind tome outstretched in his left. “*-Slash the flesh before me!*” This time he pulled the winds from two separate angles so the commander wouldn’t be able to easily avoid it. He channeled his power into the spell, making the winds strong and sharp and keeping them blowing relentlessly as the seconds ticked by.

To his satisfaction, the commander’s expression was of surprise and fear as he bunched his shoulders and raised his arms in an attempt to protect his face. But the spell found the gaps in his armor and between his arms, slicing any skin it could find.

When Soren couldn’t hold them any longer, he let the winds die. Despite his shredded lips, nose, cheeks, and fingers, the commander wasted no time dropping his arms, spreading his feet, and throwing his spear at Soren with an angry roar. But he’d neglected to take Ike into account, and the young mercenary was already running toward him.

Ike’s sword came up the moment the spear left his hand. The blade plunged into his stomach, easily penetrating his already mangled armor. “ _Gwaa haa!_ ”

Soren dropped gracelessly to the ground to avoid the flying spear, but he was still able to see Ike wrench the blade to the left and them upward before pulling it out again. Blood and innards fell at his feet. “Retched curs,” the dying man growled, clutching the gaping wound in his stomach, “you will regret your decision to oppose Daein.”

He fell dead on the road, and Ike limped back to offer Soren a hand. But mindful of Ike’s injury, he ignored the hand and stood on his own. “You’re hurt,” he said, eyeing the blood oozing across the front of his shirt and pants.

“Don’t remind me,” Ike winced, and Soren wrapped an arm around him to take some of his weight. “Thanks.”

They limped over to Rhys just as Shinon stalked off, mumbling about collecting undamaged arrows. The rest of the soldiers had been eliminated, so Titania and Gatrie joined them a moment later.

“One escaped,” Titania reported.

“We should pursue,” Soren advised. “It would be unfortunate for Daein to learn who was responsible for this altercation.”

“They started it,” Ike pouted. He was sitting against a tree holding up his shirt while Rhys bent his staff over the cut.

Soren looked around and noticed Shinon was picking at the corpses like a crow, undoubtedly looking for money or valuables in their pockets. He certainly seemed to be having too much fun for arrows to be the only thing he was finding.

Gatrie was standing nearby, fiddling with the straps of his armor that had become loosened or damaged during the fight. “I don’t know,” he muttered to Ike, “taking out these soldiers may have been a bad move.” Ike opened his mouth to reply, when Gatrie seemed to notice Shinon for the first time and changed the subject: “Um…hey, Shinon? What are you doing?”

The archer stood up, showing off an elegantly carved recurve vow, undamaged except for the blood running down the wood. “This swine’s got some nice weapons,” he said in reply, testing the taut sinew with a pluck of his fingers. Apparently, satisfied, he kicked the bow’s previous owner with the toe of his boot. “Besides, he ain’t gonna complain. He won’t need it where he’s going.”

“Shinon!” Ike pushed Rhys aside and stormed over to the wayward archer.

Since Ike was still recovering, Soren thought he should intervene. “Get ahold of yourself,” he told Shinon, reaching him before Ike. “We can’t afford such behavior right now. Steal from the dead on your own time. Besides, it will only weigh us down.”

Ike stopped and crossed his arms. He didn’t add anything.

“ _What?_ ” Shinon glared back at Soren and took a threatening step forward. His fist was still clamped around the bow. “You judgmental little-”

“Soren! Shinon!” Titania barked, standing beside Ike and mirroring his folded arms. “Stop this at once! This is not the place for us to waste time bickering amongst ourselves!”

Soren did not appreciate being scolded, but neither would he waste time arguing. If Ike was well enough to walk, then they should be going.

“Let’s clear out of here,” Ike said, echoing Soren’s thoughts.

“So we will not pursue the scout?” Titania asked tentatively.

Ike shook his head. “He could be miles from here by now, and we don’t know how far away the closest Daein troops are. For now, we just have to tell the Commander what happened.”

Letting the scout convey their descriptions to the Daein army could be a fatal mistake, but Soren understood his caution and respected it. He withdrew a map from his satchel and stepped toward Ike. “Let’s take this road,” he said, pointing to one that ran almost parallel to the one they were currently on. But it would hopefully be more remote and lead them back to the base more directly. Glancing up, he gestured to the west, just beyond the carriage wreck. “We should be able to cut through the forest here, and…” For a moment, he saw something move in the woods. It was bright orange against the green forest, and it wavered like a flag before falling behind a thorny bramble.

“Something wrong?” Ike followed his gaze.

“No.” Soren shook his head and flicked the map flat again. “As I said, this road-”

“Wait, Ike,” Rhys interrupted. He pointed into the woods beyond the carriage. “I just saw something move on the far side of that thicket!”

“A wounded soldier perhaps?” Ike cocked his head. “Let’s go have a look. But be careful about it.” Drawing his sword, he and Rhys led the way into the woods. Soren and Titania spread out to the north while Shinon and Gatrie spread out to the south.

There were no additional signs of motion, and all the soldiers (Daein or Crimean) in the underbrush seemed quite dead. But Soren didn’t think a wounded soldier was wandering these trees, because traditionally speaking, soldiers did not wear orange dresses.

“Oh no,” Rhys’s voice sounded behind him.

This was followed by the sound of Ike’s feet tearing through the underbrush. “Did you find something, Rhys?”

Soren walked resignedly toward their voices, already knowing what he’d found. A moment later he reached Ike and Rhys, who were kneeling over the body of a young noble.

“It’s a woman!” Rhys announced in surprise.

The girl’s gown, although spattered with blood, was made of fine silk the color of Rhys’s hair, and her tiny heeled shoes were obviously not meant for walking any distance. She had long, green hair, and a golden circlet dipped across her forehead. There was a cut on her upper arm and a bruise on her head, but couldn’t have been terribly concussed because she was stirring again.

Rhys helped her sit up, and Titania, Gatrie, and Shinon craned to see.

“Leave her,” Soren warned. “We shouldn’t get involved in matters that don’t concern us.” He was addressing Ike, but he knew everyone would want to help her (except maybe Shinon).

The girl tried to hold herself up, and her eyelids flickered, revealing big brown eyes. But then she immediately fainted again. Rhys laid her down, and Ike helped by awkwardly adjusting her legs and skirt. “Thank goodness,” Rhys announced after a cursory examination of her head and arm, “It looks like she’s merely fainted” He wasted no time tying a shred of fabric tightly around the cut.

“Right.” Ike bobbed his head, obviously unable to tear his eyes away. “We’d better take her with us for now and make sure she’s all right. Give me a hand, will you. Rhys?”

“Of course.” Rhys helped get her over Ike’s shoulder.

“Watch her head,” hissed Titania, reaching out. “That’s a nasty bump.”

Soren watched them and tried to understand this noblewoman’s ability to bewitch Ike, inspire such tenderness in Rhys and Titania, make Gatrie look so wistful and Shinon so hungry. He supposed she was beautiful (objectively speaking) for teenage girl, but he didn’t see the appeal in unconscious young women. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, crossing his arms, but everyone ignored him.

Back on the road, Titania helped Ike get the girl into her saddle. Then she and Gatrie stood on either side, holding her in place as they picked their way through the trees. The precariously balanced extra weight slowed their progress, and Soren feared Daein reinforcements would soon catch up. But Ike was clearly smitten, so he knew there was no chance he would dump the rich brat now.

Once they reached the woodland path Soren had chosen as their route, Titania rode with the noblewoman sitting in her lap. Despite Rhys’s ministrations, she grew feverish after just a few hours. She slipped in and out of consciousness but was never coherent enough to say anything of value. Ike decided it was better to get back to the base as soon as possible rather than find a place to stop, so they maintained a steady pace and arrived in just over a day’s time.

Titania carried the girl inside and laid her on a bench in the briefing room. Ike hurriedly told Greil everything that had happened, while Rhys collected pillows and blankets to cushion the girl’s fragile-looking skin. Mist was put in charge of looking after her, and Greil ordered the scouting party to rest while the others closed and barred the gates. “I’m not sure Daein will bother itself with a band of two-bit mercenaries like us, but let’s not take any chances, ya hear?” he said. Oscar and Boyd saluted and ran off.

Soren first went to the mess hall to grab a bite to eat and then promptly returned to his room for a nap. He hadn’t had a solid rest in days and wasn’t about to now, but even a half-sleep was better than nothing. His mind was restless with thoughts of war and, if he was honest with himself, the Branded. When he couldn’t keep himself asleep any longer, he washed and dressed in fresh clothes. When he passed Mist in the hall, he asked about the noblewoman.

“Still asleep, but her fever’s gone down,” she answered. “I’m going to do some mending while I watch her, if you have anything torn from the scouting mission.”

Soren nodded. “I’ll bring them to you.”

After doing that, he ate and drank a bit more before going back to sleep for another couple hours. When he woke, be felt a little better. Following the murmur of voices to the mess hall, he found it alive with candlelight and conversation despite the late hour.

It didn’t take long to ascertain that the noblewoman had awoken only a short time ago. “Princess Elincia Ridell Crimea,” the other mercenaries said her name was. She claimed to be the heir to the throne of Crimea, and Greil seemed to believe her.

The problem was that there was no Princess of Crimea; King Ramon had no children. Soren wished he could discuss this with Greil, Titania, or even Ike, but none of them were present. He could only assume they were still speaking with the alleged princess.

“It sounds like the Commander is truly considering her request,” Rhys noted. “And I don’t believe he would do so if he didn’t believe her story and her identity.”

“What does she want?” Soren dared ask.

“An escort to Gallia,” Rhys answered, and Shinon made a disgusted sound in his throat.

Soren couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the same way. The beast country held too many bad memories for him. King Ramon had striven to make allies of the subhumans and failed. Soren wondered if the princess really thought she’d be welcomed there. Then again, she was probably desperate to escape King Ashnard, who was rumored to be as ruthless as any subhuman. 

Soren was about to ask if the princess had any useful information about the war, when Rolf suddenly burst into the room. His eyes were wide and his chest heaving. “There are Daein soldiers outside!” he shouted in fear and disbelief.

Everybody sprung off the benches as if they were hot coals. “Go find Greil and the others!” Oscar ordered Rolf, who saluted and took off. Everybody else rushed to retrieve their weapons and armor. They met in the briefing room a few minutes later.

Greil was already here, but the mysterious noblewoman was not. “Is everyone here?” he asked, turning away from the window where he’d been surveying the soldiers assembled beyond the wall. In addition to a telescope, he’d been using an ear trumpet to catch the echo of their demands drifting up to the keep. He laid these on the table now.

“Yes,” Titania answered.

“What are the Daein dogs saying, Commander?” Shinon sneered.

Greil sighed. “’Turn over Princess Crimea and leave the area immediately. Comply now or we will attack.’ Pretty straightforward.”

“What are we going to do?” Gatrie asked with his eyebrows pushed together.

“That’s what we’re here to decide.” Greil splayed his hands on the tabletop but refused to sit down. “One thing has been made clear by the arrival of our friends outside.” He looked sideways at Soren, who felt obligated to finish the thought:

“I would say this confirms her identity as Princess Crimea.”

Greil nodded gravely. “Yes, but what do we do now? I’d like to hear the opinion of everyone here. Titania, I’d like to hear from you first.”

Titania, who had also refused to sit, now stood even straighter. She clenched her hand into a fist and held it below her heart before launching into her spiel: “The blame for this war rests on Daein. If we ally ourselves with them, the company’s reputation will surely suffer. Conversely, if we deliver Princess Crimea safely, our stock will rise in the eyes of our primary employers. Our road is clear.”

Soren glared at her, wondering what road she was looking at and how clear it could possibly be through her emotional fog. Perhaps Greil noticed his expression, because he turned to him next. “Soren, how about you?”

“There is nothing to think about,” he returned firmly. “We must deliver the princess to Daein immediately.” He glanced at Titania’s disapproving frown and then at the window where he could still hear the gurgle of the Daein announcer repeating their demands. Every moment they wasted deliberating was bringing them closer to Daein making the choice for them. Turning back to Greil, Soren tried to determine if that was exactly what he wanted.

“Even if Crimea is in the right?” His face was masked, but the question spoke volumes.

Soren didn’t like arguing with the commander, but he had to make the others see reason. He slid his gaze over his comrades’ faces. “We are mercenaries. Our actions are dictated only by self-interest. If we want to ensure our future, we need Daein in our debt. They will win this war after all, and nothing else serves us better.” His gaze landed on Titania, whose nostrils were flaring.

“Shinon? Gatrie?” Greil asked them next.

Shinon answered first: “Soren’s a pompous whelp, but he’s got the right idea. Besides, the destination’s Gallia, so it’s a moot point. I don’t care how much we get paid. There’s no way under the sun I’m going to stinking beast country.” 

Gatrie’s answer was less passionate. “Princess Elincia…” he sighed, looking up at the rafters. “She does possess a certain regal beauty. There’s a lot to be said for that you know. However, I do prefer country girls, a bit cuter and not quite so standoffish…” When he finally lowered his eyes, he seemed to notice everyone staring at him in annoyance and confusion. “Oh, forget I said that. Whatever you decide is good for me, Commander. Yep, uh-huh, yep…”

Greil shook his head as if to clear it and turned to the green-haired brothers next. “Oscar, Boyd, what about the two of you?”

“I agree with Captain Titania,” Oscar answered, “If we turn the princess over to the Daein army, we are essentially giving them permission to kill her.”

“I’m in favor of helping her,” Boyd agreed. “That’s what heroes are supposed to do.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair as if daring anyone to try to tell him heroes do something else.

“Well Rhys? What is your opinion?”

“I believe—” Rhys closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing “—that none of this hinges on whether she is a princess or not. Refusing to aid someone in need is not something we should ever do. That is what I think.”

“That’s right! Let’s help her!” Rolf exclaimed with a fist in the air, even though he technically didn’t have a vote.

“Please!” Mist grabbed Greil’s hand. “We have to help her!”

Ignoring the children, Greil turned lastly to Ike. “And what about you, Ike?”

“I…” He looked around at the mercenaries, but Soren knew he was really only seeing the princess’s face in his head. “I agree with Titania. I say we help her and take her to Gallia.”

Greil nodded as if he’d expected as much. “I see. I think I know where you all stand. Well then, here is my decision: we escort the Princess to Gallia.”

“ _Tsk_ ,” Shinon hissed sharply.

Soren held his tongue, knowing he couldn’t change Greil’s mind. The company had spoken, and Soren and Shinon had been outvoted. It was as simple as that. However, that didn’t mean the declaration was any easier to swallow. He closed his eyes and allowed his hatred of the beast kingdom to wash over him. When he’d escaped Gallia with Greil’s family, he’d never imagined returning. He was terrified of being ignored by the subhumans again, and (if he was honest with himself) even scared of being separated from the mercenaries and becoming lost in the Gallian forest again. Almost a decade had passed, but the mere prospect of that wild country made him feel like a helpless child.

But Soren refused to wallow in this fear. There was an army outside that required his attention, so he tucked all of his anxieties far in the back of his mind. When he opened his eyes, he was dismayed to see Ike looking at him. He’d obviously noticed his reaction. “Are you sure that’s for the best, Father?” he asked.

“Yes,” Greil answered firmly. “Besides, I think the choice had been taken out of our hands.”

“What?” Ike asked, confused.

“Open your ears and listen,” Greil commanded, “Listen! All of you!”

The room fell into silence, until Boyd broke it: “Huh? What is it?”

“Uh, I don’t hear a thing,” added Gatrie.

“Idiot! That’s the problem.” Shinon slapped the back of his friend’s head. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? Complete silence, in all fours directions?”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re talking about!” Gatrie rubbed his head where Shinon had hit him.

“Not only are the animals quiet, but the bugs are silent too. And that is unnatural beyond belief. Which means…” Oscar trailed off.

“We’re surrounded.” Ike finished the thought. “The soldiers aren’t waiting for an answer. They already decided to attack.”

Titania nodded. “It would appear they had no intention of keeping their side of the proposed bargain.”

With a sigh, Soren had to admit she was right. “They were planning on lulling us into a false sense of security and destroying every one of us”

“Probably so. But the deal is—” Greil grinned in acceptance of this challenge “—we’re not so naïve or inexperienced as to fall for their trap. Everyone, take your positions! We are going to settle this right now!” The room emptied as everyone flew into action. They’d never needed to defend the fort before, but they knew the contingencies by heart.


	15. CHAPTER 15: WAR

The moon had sunk low to the horizon, but it was still the dead of night when the mercenaries spilled into the yard. Soren’s vision adjusted to the moonlight, and he was grateful for the waning gibbous. He quickly assessed the meager fortifications: the main gate was barred with a single board, and the eastern and western gates were merely latched. The fourth and final entrance was the back door leading to the kitchen. Soren hoped it was locked as well, although that wouldn’t mean much in a couple minutes. 

Shinon lobbed several bushels of arrows onto the watchtower and then climbed up himself, taking his position overlooking the wall. The soldiers on the other side were still quiet, and Shinon stayed low. Turning to the western entrance, which was just a pair of half-gates leading to the horses’ paddock, Soren could make out the gleam of the soldiers’ armor on the far end of the field.

Mist and Rolf helped Titania and Oscar saddle their horses, and as soon as they were done, Greil ushered them back into the fort. “Mist, Rolf, stay hidden. I’ll go hold the rear entrance. Ike, you’re in command here. Don’t let the enemy take the fort!”

If they were truly surrounded, a significant force would soon be closing in on the kitchen door. Holding the enemy there wouldn’t be easy, but Soren knew Greil was equal to the task. 

“Got it!” Ike saluted. “Be careful, Fa- Commander.”

Greil gave a bark of laughter. “I’ll give it a shot!” With that, he and his giant axe disappeared into the candle-cast shadows of the main hall. In the gloom, Soren saw Mist and Rolf glancing from Greil to their brothers, their faces pinched in worry. Then the door fell closed, and they were lost from view.

Ike turned to the others with his shoulders pressed back and his hand grasped tightly around the hilt of his sword. The mercenaries stared expectantly at him—even Shinon, who was glaring down from his perch.

“Titania, Oscar, you two take the paddock gate. Gatrie, you’re with me at the front. Shinon, stay up there and support the two gates however you can. Boyd, you’re on the eastern gate. Soren, watch his back but stay mobile. Rhys, stay out of range and rotate between the three, got it? Alright then, everybody, move!”

Soren was impressed with the efficiency and authority with which Ike was able to give orders, and no one questioned them. Titania and Oscar threw a couple hay bales and a barrel of grain in front of the paddock gate to strengthen it and then mounted their steeds behind it. Boyd took a poker from the spent fire pit and wedged it against the eastern gate (which wasn’t much more than a door) before drawing his axe. Soren stood behind him. From his vantage point, he could see that Ike and Gatrie had done something similar with a bit of leftover wood from when they’d built the watchtower. But Soren new there would be no holding back the enemy soldiers; these fortifications would hardly slow them down.

A minute later, the Daeins finally seemed to understand that the activity they were observing within the walls was not the mercenaries preparing to bring the princess out. With no reason to wait any longer, they attacked on all sides at once.

Soren heard the Daein crier shout the order to advance. This was followed by the tromp of feet heavy on packed earth and the clanking of armor. The door in front of Boyd shook under the force of their first strike.

The old boards gave out after the second strike, but the Daeins blasted the rest of the splinters away with a third for good measure. Then they dropped the battering ram where they stood and reached for their swords. Boyd was already on the first two before their hands could touch their belts.

Soren prepared carefully annunciated incantations, and whenever Boyd left an opening, he released the winds into the soldiers awaiting their turn to fight. The foolish soldiers had left the battering ram as a tripping hazard, and that worked in Soren and Boyd’s favor. However, that didn’t mean defending the entrance was easy, especially when the Daeins finally got their act together, cleared the path of obstructions, and set up a trio of archers a dozen yards back. Soren and Boyd took cover on either side of the door, narrowly avoiding the first volley.

Soren had never fought trained soldiers until yesterday. Now he was resisting a siege by army regulars, and he tried to analyze their behavior. It didn’t take long to realize they were actually bumbling idiots who could be their own worst enemy until a new order came through. Then they adjusted their tactics and worked in unison. This made them predictable, at least until the next order came from whatever phalanx commander was watching from the tree line.

Whenever he could, Soren cast his attention to the other two gates, where the battle raged more fervently. The front gate was a mess of splinters, and the paddock gate was trampled to almost nothing. Shinon must have rigged some flaming arrows, because little fires spotted the ground and the haybales were billowing smoke. 

Titania, Oscar, and their steeds worked in unison, moving in and out of the gate to keep the soldiers from making any progress into the yard. Meanwhile, Ike and Gatrie stood their ground, refusing to give the soldiers an inch. From the relative safety of the scaffolding, Shinon rained down a seemingly infinite number of arrows, thinning the ranks before they reached Ike’s or Titania’s defenses.

Rhys was busy running back and forth, and on occasion a yelp from Boyd would draw him to the eastern gate. On the other hand, there were times Boyd was hollering in victory, and Soren judged he could leave him a moment to help the others. The soldiers came in waves, and at the tail-end of a wave, Soren would move to the front gate. Here he could relieve some of the pressure with wind magic (which had far better range than Ike’s sword or Gatrie’s lance.)

The mercenaries repelled the soldiers for over an hour, but still they refused to retreat or parlay. The eastern sky had begun to brighten, and Soren wondered how much strength he had left before passing out or accidentally stepping right into a spear. Then, finally, the Daein commander bellowed: “Soldiers! Retreat! We fall back for now!”

“Let them go!” Ike ordered the other mercenaries. He kept his sword up, but his stance was defensive not offensive. For a few awkward moments, the defeated soldiers collected their injured and limped back into the trees.

Panting hard, Soren closed his tome with trembling fingers. He tasted blood and salt in his mouth and realized a wound next to his eye was dripping down to his lips. Acknowledging this opened his mind to all the aches and pains he felt from head to toe, and he leaned against the wall for support as the sensation washed over him. The mercenaries had survived this siege, but Soren had a bad feeling this was only the beginning.

After a few minutes of quiet, Ike said, “Oscar, Soren, do a sweep of the woods. I want to know they’re really gone. Titania, report to the Commander. Gatrie, Boyd, help me barricade the entrances again. Rhys, Shinon, you’re on watch.”

Oscar walked his mare slowly by Soren’s side. They each held a torch aloft and remained silent as they examined the trodden dirt and broken branches. The sounds of insects and birds had returned to the forest, and the road leading north was dusty with footprints. When he was satisfied the Daeins had truly retreated, Soren suggested they head back, and Oscar agreed.

As they walked, Soren wondered when the survivors would unite with reinforcements. It was hard to gauge how far the Daein Army may have spread, but if Ashnard was set on conquering Crimea in one fell swoop, eliminating the heir to the throne was surely a priority. The mercenaries wouldn’t be able to defend their base a second time. They needed to leave as soon as possible.

Back at the base, Soren found stacks of furniture, broken wood, boxes, and barrels piled in front of the entrances, but it was easy to navigate around these barricades and join the others. Everyone except Greil and the princess was waiting in the bailey.

“We’ve cleared the surrounding area of Daein troops,” Soren reported to Ike and Titania. 

Ike shook his head as if bewildered. “There’s no question about it. We’re enemies of the Daein kingdom now, aren’t we?”

Titania seemed about to reply when Greil strode into the yard. “We’ve no time for rest!” he barked, as if he’d found them lazing about. “Everyone, pack your things now. We leave at once, before the enemy brings reinforcements!” Everyone jumped as if scolded.

“Understood.” Oscar saluted and grabbed his brother by the arm. “Boyd! Come with me.”

Boyd pulled out of his grasp. “I’m right behind you, brother!” he crowed, and they brushed past Greil into the keep.

Mist pulled on Rolf in much the same way. “Ah! We’ve got to hurry, too! Come on, Rolf. We’ve got to pack as much food and supplies as we can!”

“Uh, whatever you say! Let’s go, Mist!” Rolf saluted cheerfully, and they skipped after Oscar and Boyd

“Titania!” Greil turned to her. “Take Shinon and Gatrie and make sure we have a secure road from here to the great forest. We’ll make our way to Gallia through the sea of trees.”

“On my way, sir!”

“Rhys,” he turned to the healer, who looked as pale and feverish as he usually did after a battle. “You stay with me. I want you to help me pull some essential documents from the library. Everything else we burn.”

“Y-yes, sir!” Rhys replied, obviously surprised by the request.

“Ike!” Greil jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re in charge of the princess.”

Ike didn’t seem burdened by this task. “Alright!” he chirped, and with a hasty salute, he jogged into the keep.

Greil and Rhys were only a couple steps behind him and soon disappeared. While Titania and the others planned the scouting mission, Soren realized he was the only one without a task. After a moment’s deliberation, he decided he should pack too.

When he reached his room, however, he remembered that he’d left most of his extra clothes and supplies back with the Mercenaries of Fayre. All he had now was his wind tome, the stolen maps and spells he’d dumped out of his satchel, and not much more than the clothes and shoes he was wearing. The realization was jarring, and the events of the past few days suddenly played through his mind at incredible speed.

 _I was at the library_ , he thought numbly, _Now I’m at war_. Recalling the purpose of his scholarly visit, his eyes were drawn to the scratches behind the door. He’d diligently recorded his height for years, and now those marks would remain as proof that he’d once been here. Out of curiosity, he measured himself against them now. As expected, he hadn’t grown in the time he’d been studying with the Mercenaries of Fayre. Shaking his head, he chastised himself for the foolishness of worrying about such things at a time like this.

Finding an old bag, he determined to pack what little he had. After all, he didn’t need much, and being lighter was better on the run. 

After hastily packing their own precious possessions, Titania, Shinon, and Gatrie departed on foot to scout their route. Titania’s stallion was left with Oscar’s mare to be laden with the heaviest (and least-important) supplies. These were the things that would be dumped the moment they were attacked.

In addition to the horses’ saddlebags, each of the mercenaries hoisted a heavy backpack containing their own belongings and a portion of the food and basic supplies Mist and Rolf had packed. Rhys bent under the weight of his bag, although it was on the smaller side. He also had a Heal staff strapped to his back, which he kept managing to swing into people when he turned suddenly. He wielded another two staves in his hands, which he used as walking sticks.

He wasn’t the only one so encumbered. Everyone made sure to pack or strap on their secondary weapons. They all knew they might never return to the base, and, even if they did, they would certainly need them before that time. Soren was glad his tome, although rather large and heavy for a book, was relatively small and light compared to most weapons.

When they assembled in the yard, Soren saw the princess for the first time since she’d awakened. She must have borrowed a pair of boots, which she wore under her silk dress, and over her shoulders was clasped an oilskin cloak with a hood to protect her from the rain (and perhaps hide her royal face). She wore a backpack like the rest of the mercenaries and gripped the straps with white knuckles, as if afraid the bag would jump off if she let go.

“We move out now,” Greil announced when Boyd came running into the yard—the last to arrive. There was no ceremony or farewell. He merely walked out of the front gate, ignoring the boxes Ike had stacked into an unnecessary barricade and the row of dead soldiers whose eyes Mist had found the time to close.

They travelled as swiftly as possible, avoiding towns, and cutting cross-country when necessary. They remained subdued, even when they reunited with Titania, Shinon, and Gatrie. A week passed in the Crimea countryside before the Greil Mercenaries finally entered the great forest. The ancient woods reminded Soren of Gallia, so he’d never entered them before. His sweat turned cold as the towering trees swallowed their little company, and although the thick canopy provided shade from the summer sun, it offered little relief.

Not long after this, the princess stopped gawking at the height of the redwoods and steered herself over to Soren. Perhaps the false privacy of the trees made her feel talkative. “Your name is Soren, right?” she asked with a shy but friendly smile.

Although she should have certainly known his name by now, this was the first time she’d volunteered to speak with him personally. Soren found her attempt oddly irritating, so he didn’t answer.

After hesitating a moment, she continued: “I hear you were in Melior when…when it happened.”

“I was at the Royal Library,” Soren gave in.

“It’s a miracle you were able to escape,” Elincia noted with an air of congratulation.

“As an ignoble civilian, I was not targeted.”

“Even so,” she shook her head again, “there was so much chaos. The fires, they… It was so hard to see. No one knew where anyone was… No one knew what was happening.” Her voice broke as she choked on the words.

“Someone must have known what was happening,” Soren found himself replying in a hard, unsympathetic voice. “The guard was increased that night.”

Elincia stared at her feet. “Well, I didn’t know…” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, and her eyes were moist with tears. Not willing to entertain this conversation any longer, he lengthened his stride and put some distance between them.

Soren was spared having to converse with the princess again, because she spent most of her time walking alone or making small talk with Ike, Rhys, or Titania. Occasionally Greil would give her an hour of his time to discuss politics and the state of the realm prior to the invasion. It seemed meaningless now that Daein had changed everything. Perhaps Greil was trying to distract her from what had happened, but that was a mercy Soren wouldn’t have expected from the commander.

One day when they were consulting the maps together, he decided to ask about it. “If you have been testing her fitness to rule,” Soren noted, gesturing to Elincia with his eyes, “You must have found by now that she is naïve and ill-prepared.” Greil furrowed his brow contemplatively but didn’t interrupt. “Why, then, do we continue to escort her to Gallia as if it will make any difference?”

Greil grunted and began folding the maps. “She is wiser and braver than you give her credit,” he replied.

“I don’t see it.”

“You’re ignoring it,” he said, throwing his shoulders back and turning his gaze to where Rhys was attending Elincia’s blistered feet. “Think—how could she be the only survivor of that ambush?”

Soren hadn’t thought about it, but as soon as he did, he recalled seeing a sword lying on the ground where Rhys had found her. “If a single Daein had survived, she would have been kidnapped. If a single Crimean, she would have been rescued,” Soren thought aloud, “We found her some distance from the carriage, with a moderate laceration on her shoulder and a significant concussion… This suggests she may have raised a blade in her own defense.”

“Not only that.” Greil nodded in agreement. “She must have taken a life to defend herself, and as you know, that is no easy thing.”

Since becoming a mercenary, Soren had become accustomed to the killing his position necessitated, but an untested princess would have no experience with such things. She would have been just as unprepared as Soren had been that day in the temple. “True,” he finally conceded, “But it is not admirable if the act broke her will. She has clearly not been able to accept what happened.”

“Look at her again,” Greil said simply. “She is not broken.”

Soren obeyed, and he had to admit it was somewhat impressive that she could still smile at Rhys despite everything.

“And as for acceptance—” Greil shrugged “—most of us never really accept our traumas. If we did, you wouldn’t be so afraid of where we’re going, right?” His words were like an electric shock, and Soren stared as if caught red-handed. Greil shook his head. “I don’t hold it against you. But I would ask that you no longer suggest we abandon the princess and turn back. We’ve struck a contract with young Elincia, and we will honor it to the end.”

“Understood, sir,” Soren mumbled, feeling thoroughly chastened.

Greil grunted and held out the folded maps for Soren to take. He took them, and Greil walked away without another word on the subject.

The farther south they traveled, the more oppressively hot the air became. The others wore their armor at all hours of the day and reeked of sweat. They only stopped to sleep for a few hours at a time, and they whined of exhaustion and backaches as often as they did the rashes and heat sores. Soren didn’t wear armor and could get by on little sleep if need be, but he was no less effected by the hard travel and tense nerves.

There had been no sign of the Daein pursuit since leaving the base, but Greil was adamant they wouldn’t be far behind so the mercenaries remained vigilant and constantly prepared for a fight. Soren agreed with Greil’s prudence. No matter how weak the princess was, Ashnard would not let a threat to his conquest slip through his fingers a fourth time.

“Blazes,” Gatrie cursed when they stopped for a break. “Why does it have to be so blamed humid? If we weren’t being chased, I’d strip off this armor here and now!” He dabbed the sweat from his brow with an already soaked handkerchief.

“And if there were ladies around, he would do it twice as quick,” Boyd whispered loudly to Ike with his hand shielding his mouth.

“Then I’m almost glad we _are_ being pursued,” Titania laughed, nudging Gatrie playfully. Her attempt at humor was a surprise, and Soren supposed the heat must be getting to her head too. “I suppose you’ll just have to grin and bear it, won’t you?”

“Hm, I suppose I will.” Gatrie agreed, donning goofy grin.

Everyone laughed, but there was a frailty to their voices.

“Right.” Titania reverted to her usual self with a shake of her head. “So enough of your griping. You’re merely wasting energy.” She wiped the sweat from her own brow and appeared even paler than usual. “Still, this heat _is_ appalling.”

“Dense forests such as these are not made for us delicate humans,” Shinon noted, dribbling water onto the back of his neck. “The subhumans love ‘em though.” He glanced around edgily. The fact that they were still in Crimea didn’t seem to relieve his fear of the beasts.

Ike stepped closer to Shinon. “These ‘subhumans’…are they really so different from us?”

“What, you mean to tell me you’ve never seen a beast-man before?” Shinon patronized.

“No, never,” Ike admitted.

“Well, I have. They’re a hairy bunch, I tell ya. And ugly as sin too. Their faces are all fangs and whiskers. Their claws are like daggers—razor sharp and deadly. And even though they can speak our language, they’re beasts through and through. Savages, every one.” Shinon crossed his arms, and Soren was amazed at how much he sounded like Sileas.

“Are there more than one type?” Ike sounded more curious than fearful.

Soren decided to take charge of his education. Better that than Shinon continuing to insult his ignorance. “The ones Shinon calls ‘subhumans’ can be divided into three groups, each named for its physical characteristics: the beast tribe, the bird tribe, and the dragon tribe. They are traditionally call ‘laguz’.”

Ike’s head fell to the side like a puppy listening with rapt interest. Sweat glued his hair to his forehead.

Soren continued: “The one residing here in Gallia is the beast tribe, who possess those feline qualities of which Shinon spoke.”

Shinon nodded. “To the south are the islands where the bird-men live. The dragons are in Goldoa. It’s something every mercenary should know. Looks like you know even less than I gave you credit for, Ike my boy.”

Ike seemed embarrassed. “Hm, perhaps.”

Talking about subhumans wasn’t something Soren enjoyed. He closed his eyes a moment to clear his thoughts. When he opened them again, he changed the subject: “A little farther, and we’ll be out of these trees, Ike.”

“Really?” Shinon snorted, “That means Gallia proper! Compared to this forest, even a kingdom of half-breeds will seem like heaven.”

The next day they finally neared the Gallian border. Soren’s maps showed there should be a break in the forest soon, which all the mercenaries would appreciate. However, it could also mean an attack from Daein. Even if he hadn’t predicted where Elincia would flee, King Ashnard would have sent troops to the border to secure his conquest. Soren could only wonder how many troops and how closely they’d be stationed.

“Hold it right there, everyone,” Greil ordered with his fist in the air. “We’re coming to the edge of the forest. Form up. Combat positions.”

Titania sighed and tapped her horse to take the right flank. “I don’t suppose our Daein pursuers were willing to let us just slip away.”

Soren fell back behind Boyd and was surprised to see Greil’s eyes following him as if expecting him to say something. So he spoke up: “There is no doubt they will attack again. Without knowing their numbers, it is difficult to advise a course of action.”

Shinon took his place opposite Soren with his bow strung, and Ike fell in line with Boyd. They’d now formed a protective semicircle with Elincia, Rolf, and Mist at the center. But because Greil was still looking at Soren, everyone else was too.

“Take your best guess, Soren,” Greil prodded. “With the limited information we have, what is the best way to proceed?”

“Okay,” Soren swallowed. The commander didn’t usually ask Soren for tactical guidance, but he pushed aside his surprise to think more clearly. “Some of our group cannot fight. If we are caught, we’ll have a difficult time defending them and attacking the Daein soldiers.” Just one glance at their cramped protective formation was enough to convey this fact. “I propose we separate into two groups: a small fighting force to engage the enemy and buy the main group some time, and the rest of us who will escort the princess to Gallia at full speed.”

“You want to divide our combat strength?” Oscar asked, rubbing his chin nervously. “The main force aside, don’t you think the risk to the smaller group is too high?”

“I believe this is the only way to achieve our goal and keep casualties to a minimum,” Soren replied firmly, “It is possible there’s an ambush waiting for us at the edge of the forest. If we proceed with no plan, we may be caught between the pursuit and the ambush, which would be the end of us all.”

“It looks like we’ve no choice but to give it a go.” Greil agreed with a confident grin. “Alright, let’s split up. The diversionary team will be Gatrie, Shinon, and me. The rest of you guard Princess Elincia and proceed to Gallia straightaway. Got it?”

“Are you sure you’re taking enough men?” Ike asked in concern.

Shinon shook his head condescendingly. “Idiot pup. Smaller numbers means more mobility. Your time would be better spent worrying about yourself than about us.”

Ike didn’t seem convinced.

“Listen up!” Greil called attention back to him. “This will probably prove to be the biggest fight this company’s faced. Remember—you’ve got only one life. I don’t want any of you dying on me. In times like these, it doesn’t matter what our blood ties are; we are family. If you don’t want to cause your family any grief, then live!” This wasn’t the first time Greil had given this speech, and Soren brushed if off as usual. “Ike will be commanding the main force. Titania, you’re his support. Alright, let’s move out! See you all in Gallia!”

After choosing a rendezvous, the two groups went their separate ways.


	16. CHAPTER 16: BORDER CROSSING

With Greil and the others gone, Ike’s group changed into a widely spaced wedge formation and hurried out of the forest as soon as possible. Mist and Rolf were holding Elincia’s hands at the center, and the three were commanded to stay together no matter what happened. Rhys strode in front of the princess, beating a path for her through the underbrush, which was thickening as the trees grew younger and smaller. Twenty feet ahead of Rhys was Ike at the point of the wedge. Flanking him on the right and left were Titania and Oscar, each set back two dozen yards at an angle of thirty degrees. Soren and Boyd were stationed another twenty yards behind them on either side. Titania and Oscar’s horses were easiest to see, and that helped everyone stay in alignment.

When they finally reached the end of the trees, their wedge collapsed into a line against a dense thicket. While the others kept low and quiet, Soren and Ike crawled on their hands and knees under the thorns to get a better view of the wide meadow, pebbly shore, and river beyond.

The river had two bridges, one stone and one wood, a half-mile apart. Daein soldiers milled lazily on either side of the river, and Soren estimated forty soldiers were currently stationed here. The stone bridge was closest and more heavily guarded.

Forty would be enough of a challenge with only six mercenaries, a princess, and a couple children at Ike’s disposal, but Soren was now worried for Greil as well. He couldn’t help but notice that the meadow had been trampled by many people and animals. A much larger force had camped here, perhaps as early as last night, which meant the battalion would still be in the area. This was the main force Greil, Shinon, and Gatrie would be ‘distracting’, and suddenly Soren’s diversion strategy felt like folly.

“So they’re waiting for us after all…” Ike finally broke the silence.

“There are more of them than I’d imagined there would be,” Soren admitted in a whisper. “I thought they would have been more spread out across the forest border.” He shook his head. “I didn’t expect to see so many in one place.”

“Do we rethink our strategy?”

“No,” Soren answered firmly, “we’ve already split up. It’s too late to reconsider now.”

“Isn’t there some way we can at least get the princess, Mist, and Rolf to the far shore safely?” Ike pushed.

Soren thought for a moment and formulated a plan. “There are two bridges. This thicket extends to the edge of the western bridge. If we can use the trees as cover, we might be able to reach it undetected. From there, we can launch a surprise attack.”

“We’ll be creating a diversion, right?” Ike smiled.

“Correct. While we keep the enemy’s attention—” he pointed to the stone bridge “—the princess and the others can cross to safety.” He pointed to the wooden bridge.

“We’ve got no time for discussion. That’s the plan we go with,” Ike declared.

He and Soren crawled back out of the thicket, where the others waited. Ike quickly translated the plan, and Elincia’s expression grew more distressed with each word. “My lord Ike,” she finally cut in. “I- I will fight with you!”

Soren could hardly believe what he was hearing. Even though he’d deduced that Elincia must have held a sword before, he still couldn’t imagine the noblewoman actually standing her ground in battle. She would falter and flee, and she would be right to do so.

“No, you won’t,” Ike declared firmly.

“My lord?” She seemed hurt by his response.

“I cannot let you expose yourself to danger of any kind. Everyone here is risking their life to ensure your safety. If you understand that, you’ll cooperate and do as I ask.”

“I see…” Elincia ran her gaze over the mercenaries. “I will do my part.” She was clearly trying (and failing) to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“It’s settled then,” Titania declared, mounting her steed.

“Right!” Ike clapped his hands together. “Let’s break through their lines! Mist, Rolf, take care of the princess. Do not let yourselves be seen!”

“Right!” Mist saluted.

“Leave it to us, Ike! We’ll just pretend it’s a game of hide-and-seek. And I never lose at hide-and-seek!” Rolf assured.

Ike drew his sword. “Everybody ready? Let’s go!”

The mercenaries scurried to the edge of the thicket while Elincia, Mist, and Rolf ran toward the eastern bridge. When Ike finally gave the signal, they burst from the underbrush in a loud, boisterous attack. With the element of surprise on their side, they quickly defeated the few soldiers guarding this side.

Horns of alarm were blown, and shouts went up from the opposite shore. The enemy commander was calling his troops to meet the mercenaries’ attack. As predicted, the soldiers stationed on the eastern bridge immediately ran to the summons.

“Trap them! Trap them!” the enemy commander hollered, making clear his plan to confine the mercenaries to the bridge, limit their maneuverability, and slaughter them before they could reach the opposite shore.

However, the Greil Mercenaries were not so inexperienced as to fall for that. Oscar and Boyd defended their claim to half the bridge while staying in range of Soren’s long-distance attacks from the safety of land. Ike and Titania also kept their feet and hooves on solid earth, handling the soldiers who charged across the meadow from the eastern bridge.

When these soldiers were dead (and the eastern bridge well and truly unmanned), Titania rounded her horse and shouted a terrifying war cry. Boyd jumped up onto the parapet to make way, showing he could be surprisingly nimble when the situation called for it.

With their steeds snorting and frothing, Titania and Oscar charged down the remainder of the bridge, cutting down the soldiers they could reach and forcing others to jump into the water to avoid the crush of their hooves.

Ike and Boyd were charging behind them, and Soren and Rhys pulled up the rear. In the distance, Soren saw the hem Elincia’s orange dress escape her leather coat while she and the others flitted down the eastern bridge. Fortunately his plan seemed to be working, and no Daeins noticed them. They were too preoccupied by Ike and Boyd, who had run along the parapets on either side, successfully getting in front of Titania and Oscar as soon as they’d lost the momentum of their charge.

They were at the end of the bridge now, but the enemy commander had had ample time to form a strong defense. Ike and Boyd were slashing relentlessly with their sword and axe, but they couldn’t break onto solid ground, and therefore Titania and Oscar couldn’t use their mounts effectively. They were stuck.

Behind the swordsmen Ike and Boyd were battling, well-positioned spearmen were jabbing their weapons up at the heads of Titania and Oscar’s distressed horses. Behind the spearmen were archers, and try as he might, Soren couldn’t get an angle on them with his wind magic. (It didn’t help that he had the butt of Titania’s stallion in his face.) Meanwhile Rhys was doing his best to heal a wound that sliced through both Oscar’s leg and his horse’s side. If he didn’t close it fast, the mare would give out, sending man and beast into the fast-flowing waters below.

Little by little, the mercenaries were being pushed back. Even stuck in the back as he was, Soren knew Ike and Boyd were waning. They were injured, but Rhys couldn’t reach them and neither could they retreat. Using the parapets again to get behind the horses would mean exposing their backs to the archers. Their proximity to the frontline was the only thing blocking them from the deadly arrows now. But this couldn’t go on much longer. Something had to change, or they would all die right here.

“Soren to the front!” Ike called, which was not a command Soren was used to hearing. But he did agree it was the only maneuver they had.

He climbed onto the parapet and was so focused on not losing his balance or getting feathered with arrows that he was taken completely by surprise when Titania grabbed him. “ _Alley-oop!”_ she called, sliding smoothly around in her saddle so she could seize him in both hands and swing him around front. Soren’s stomach dropped when his feet flew over the water, but it returned to him when he landed in the embrace of Ike’s left arm.

“The archers!” Ike ordered as soon as his feet had touched the ground.

Soren didn’t have time to be dazed, so he extended his hand to the nearest archer and called the incantation: "*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me!*" The spell was sloppy but powerful. It may not have killed the archer, but it blew him, the man to his right, and the man behind him off their feet.

In the commotion that followed, Soren delivered more acutely aimed spells into their necks when they tried to rise. Meanwhile Ike and Titania were stopping anyone from chopping his own head off.

“A mage!” Ike warned beside him. Soren turned his attention to a middle-aged man wearing the robes of a Daein fire mage, who’d stepped up to take the archer’s place.

Soren repeated the spell as quickly as he could, but he wasn’t fast enough. Winds ripped into the mage’s right arm and shoulder a moment after his fireball had already materialized above Boyd’s head.

At the sight of the fire forming, Oscar’s horse had whinnied and backstepped several feet. This gave Boyd enough room to avoid a direct hit, but his right boot still caught fire and the flames were racing up his pantleg.

“Boyd!” Oscar screamed. He backed his mare up even farther, giving his brother room to roll until the fire was only smoke and pain.

Meanwhile the mage had retreated to have his injuries treated by a Daein cleric. Soren cursed his poor aim and wished he’d managed to kill the pesky magic-user. In truth, he wasn’t used to fighting them. According to Sileas’s teachings, those who practiced magic developed an affinity with spirits and were therefore less effected by spell work. He should have concentrated harder.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on failure. With Boyd momentarily out of commission and Oscar too far away, he, Ike, and Titania were alone. Soren chanted Wind spells as quickly as he could to keep the soldiers from overwhelming them, even if his blasts were merely pushing soldiers back or to the side, rather than causing any serious damage. He broke their stances and interfered with their aim, and that was enough for now.

“It’s too congested here!” Soren called, momentarily switching to the common tongue. “I recommend sending Oscar and Titania around!” He hardly allowed himself a breath between the final word of his advice and the first word of his next spell. 

Ike nodded without looking away from his current opponent. “You heard him! Take the eastern bridge. We’ll hold them here!”

“Are you sure?” Titania asked, wind-milling her poleax into the next soldier who came close enough for her to reach.

“We’ll be fine!” Ike assured, “Go!”

Since Oscar was already farther back, he twisted his steed first and bolted down the bridge. Rhys, who’d been healing Boyd from behind, threw himself out of the way. Titania followed Oscar, and Boyd got to his feet, chest heaving, eyes wide. A moment later Rhys narrowly avoided two arrows and yelped in surprise.

“Rhys, fall back!” Ike ordered, and he obeyed while Boyd reclaimed his place at Ike’s side. Soren was not given the same order, so he stayed right behind the two young men.

There were two archers left, so he turned his full attention to them now. He shot the ancient words with sharp bursts of his breath, willing the winds to sharpen into a flurry of flying blades. They cut deep and repeatedly into one archer, until he fell from view and did not rise again. Soren turned his next spell on the final archer, but with more room to move, he avoided the attack. Soren accounted for this when aiming the third spell, fanning it out until the winds found their mark.

Finally free of the barrage, Ike and Boyd could use what Greil referred to as ‘tide’ tactics. They fell back and pushed forward at their leisure, forcing the soldiers to pursue them a few steps and leave the guard of their neighbors. Here Ike and Boyd had better mobility and could more easily kill or maim any careless soldier. Meanwhile, Soren assisted them with well-placed spells.

Titania and Oscar had reached the opposite shore and were now charging in their direction, but the Daein commander had adapted his defense and sent a phalanx to meet them with pikes outstretched. If Ike and Boyd couldn’t push onto dry land at the same time Titania and Oscar reached them, then Soren’s strategy would have done nothing more than separate them and endanger both parties.

Distracted by this concern, he wasn’t paying attention to the fight in front of him. A Daein axman swung from the side, catching Soren in the hip and sending him to the ground. The second blow might have taken his head if Ike hadn’t caught it on his blade and begun wrestling the man for leverage.

Using the parapet for support, Soren limped back to Rhys. Pain exploded through his side and down his leg with every step, and he cursed his carelessness. Since he was short, most attacks came at his head torso; he wasn’t always vigilant about defending his legs. But this axman had been rather scrappy himself and must have had the instinct to strike low.

“Stay still,” Rhys ordered, prising Soren’s fingers from where he clutched the gash as if to keep it closed. “Does it feel broken? Dislocated?”

“I don’t think so,” Soren hissed.

“Then you’re lucky.” Rhys gripped his Heal staff in both hands and muttered the command word: “*Heal*.” A green glow appeared over the wound, but Soren’s mind was already back on the battle. Ike and Boyd were fighting for their lives only steps away, and Titania and Oscar were fighting for theirs in the field beyond. But the Daein commander was successfully keeping them separated.

Now was a terrible time to have an injury like this, and Soren was anxious to get back in the fight. The others couldn’t do this on their own. With this thought in mind, he pushed himself off the parapet and began limping back. The green light faded.

“I’m not done!” Rhys scolded.

“Do you have your light tome?” Soren asked in response, not turning around. It still hurt to walk, but at least every step wasn’t sending a wave of blood down his leg.

“I don’t know what help-”

“We need a distraction,” Soren cut him off, “if only for a moment.”

“…Okay,” Rhys agreed, following him closer to the battle.

“*Sp- Spirits of light, devour- de-devour-*” Rhys fumbled. “*Spirits of light, devour the flesh before me!*”

A bright burst of light erupted above Soren’s head. It wasn’t enough to hurt anyone, but it called the Daeins’ attention and temporarily blinded any soldier who happened to look at it.

Soren knew the opening was coming and sent a lance of wind into the Daeins on the right side. The gust cut deep into one soldier’s chest, throwing him to the ground, and unsteadied two others who were then swiftly felled by Ike and Boyd.

“Push now!” Ike ordered, and they pressed their advantage while the Daeins were still reeling or wiping their eyes.

Titania and Oscar were less affected by this distraction, but they didn’t need it. They had the open grass on which to better use their steeds now, and their coordinated maneuvers were finally dividing and disorienting the soldiers who’d been sent to stand against them.

“We have them!” Ike called above the clash of battle. “They can’t stop us now!” His smile was broad with assured victory, and he didn’t even seem concerned by the fact he’d taken a blow to his left arm and was now fighting one-handed. Rhys was following him like a timid moth, trying to get him to pause and let himself be healed. But now that they were beyond the bridge, Ike refused to stop.

Soren limped forward as steadily as he could beside Rhys and behind the relative protection of Ike and Boyd. The mage who’d retreated before stepped up for another bout, but Soren was ready for him this time.

This mage was a decent incanter, but his spells were on the slow side. Even with only one good leg, Soren had time to predict the fireball’s trajectory and avoid it. He didn’t give the mage the chance to utter another one—sending a blade of wind slicing through the air as fast as he could. The mage hit the ground, his cloak soon turning an even deeper shade of red.

When he looked up, Soren saw that they’d finally reunited with Titania and Oscar, and together the others were making short work of the remaining soldiers. The Daein commander called back his troops into a defensive formation with himself at its center and his back to the trees. Despite the composure of his well-trained stance, his face betrayed his disbelief. “What’s this?” he gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then the rest of his training seemed to kick in, and he hid his fear and bewilderment behind false confidence. “They’re not so bad!” he laughed to his troops. “Let’s go, men! Hit those mercenary scum with everything you have!”

The six mercenaries met them with just as much grit, and before long, Ike was able to cross blades with the commander himself. Rhys had managed to heal his arm enough that it was no longer oozing blood against his shirtfront, and he no longer held it clamped tight to his chest. But neither did he seem able to use it for anything more than balance. Soren could only assume he’d pulled away from the healing session just as he had.

“I will not let you take one more step,” the enemy commander cried, but the warning fell flat given the fact that his troops were dying around him.

Ike shrugged his injured should and held his sword outstretched. “Then I guess I’ve no choice but to cut you down and walk over you!” He fell into combat with the commander, and they ferociously whittled away at each other until only one could get to his feet. Soren watched but didn’t intervene; he didn’t need to this time.

Ike was left standing, while the commander collapsed with a groan. Blood came to the edges of his mouth, and Ike withdrew his sword from the man’s diaphragm. “My life ends here,” he gurgled, “but though you flee to Gallia…you will—” he hacked a glob of blood “—fall to Daein.” The final words were a whisper, and his eyes widened in death.

Titania was finishing off the last armored knight, which just left a Daein cleric struggling to his feet. Soren eliminated him with a sharp Wind spell, which easily passed through his black-embroidered white robes and fragile flesh. Titania frowned disapprovingly over the knight’s shoulder, but Soren didn’t feel guilty for killing the unarmed cleric. They couldn’t afford to leave survivors who would carry news of their crossing to the nearest Daein encampment. It was as simple as that.

By the time her opponent fell, Titania seemed to have forgiven the execution. Rather than scold him, she dismounted and began assessing the damage to her horse’s legs and haunches. “Poor boy,” she crooned, prodding the scratches marring the stallion’s white coat.

Oscar was checking the burn on Boyd’s leg, and Rhys was approaching Soren on clumsy feet. His white robes were as splattered with blood as Titania’s horse, and now that the battle was over, he was seized by his usual weakness. Soren thought for a moment he might pass out, but his face was serious enough. “Let me finish that before your cause permanent damage,” he ordered more forcefully than Soren would have expected.

He was not fond of the idea of having a limp or nerve damage the rest of his life, so he readily acquiesced. Limping to the nearest tree trunk, he leaned against it with his leg outstretched. Rhys healed the wound again, and the pain eased to a faint ache.

“You may have a scar from the interrupted healing,” Rhys said finally, “But it shouldn’t bother you now.”

Soren tried his weight again and was relieved to find he could walk almost completely normally. It felt like no more than a deep bruise, which was incredible considering the size of the gash that had been there. Rhys was an exemplary healer, and the mercenaries were lucky to have him. But Soren wasn’t about to start handing out compliments. “See to Ike’s arm,” he said instead.

While Rhys did this, Soren helped Titania and Oscar retrieve their discarded backpacks and saddlebags from the other side of the river. When they returned, Ike looked better and had full use of both arms “Let’s get out of here,” he said, accepting his pack from Titania. Soren could tell by he was anxious to reunite with his sister and the princess.

They entered the woods, which gave way to another meadow before long. This one was smaller than the riverside field, and it touched the corner of an oxbow lake—their predetermined rendezvous. Elincia, Mist, and Rolf were sitting in the tall grass, but they leapt to their feet when they saw mercenaries.

Ike shook his head in relief. “I don’t know how we made it…”

“Brother!” Mist ran to him.

“My lord Ike!” The princess also pranced toward him.

“Mist! Princess! Rolf!” Ike raced to meet them halfway, where he hugged Mist tightly. Tousling her hair, he glanced at the others. “Are you all okay?”

Soren and rest of the mercenaries followed at a regular pace.

“Yep!” Rolf gave a thumbs-up. “We’re fine.”

Mist tugged on Ike’s torn, red sleeve. “So is this Gallia?” she asked, “We made it, didn’t we? We’re safe now, right? I thought I would feel different, but I don’t.”

“This is all due to your efforts.” Elincia ran her big, sad eyes over the bloodied mercenaries. “Thank you.”

“Princess…” Ike stared at her, apparently lost for words.

Soren decided he needed to step in. “It’s too early to rest easy. The others haven’t rejoined us yet.”

“ _Ah!_ ” The princess shook her head as if refusing to forget such a fact again.

Titania tried to comfort her by addressing Soren: “We’re talking about the Commander. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“Father…” Ike murmured, staring at the ground. “Shinon…Gatrie.” A defiant gleam lit his face, and Soren realized what he must be thinking. 

“Princess Elincia!” Ike turned to her suddenly. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to part ways here.”

“But what do you mean?”

“We’re going back to aid our companions,” Ike answered firmly, “so I want you to continue with Mist to the royal palace of Gallia.”

“What?” Mist was clearly not fond of the idea. “No, Ike! I’m going to stay with you.”

Soren shook his head at Ike’s impatience. He was about to send his sister and his ward through the untamed Gallian countryside on nothing but a whim.

“Listen to me, Mist.” Ike held her shoulders sternly. “We must do it this way so that everyone gets out of here alive.”

Mist bit her lip and glared petulantly at his left foot.

He let her go, and his eyes were gentler. “Father and I will catch up right away. Don’t worry. Have either of us ever broken a promise to you?”

“Well, no,” Mist conceded, looking up at Ike again. “Alright, then. We’ll go ahead.”

Everyone was watching the siblings argue as if the cooperation of a thirteen-year-old girl would be the deciding factor. “Thank you, Mist,” Titania said, thereby throwing her support behind Ike’s plan. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Take care of my brother, Titania,” Mist replied, sounding slightly more mature than usual. “Promise?”

“You have my word on it.” Titania saluted.

Soren decided it was time to step in again. “I do not advise we alter our plan. We must give Commander Greil a chance to come to us.”

Ike frowned, but he did seem to consider his words. “A lot of Daein soldiers camped at that crossing, didn’t they?”

Soren was surprised he’d picked up on that. “Yes,” he agreed. “I estimate two hundred. Infantry and horses judging from the remains.”

Ike bobbed his head. “The three of them can’t handle that many.”

Soren knew Ike was technically correct, but he was still reluctant to accept his plan. “In open combat yes,” he agreed, “But the commander is wise enough to avoid that.”

“I won’t risk it,” Ike returned defiantly. “There were more troops than we expected. We need to back them up.”

Soren gave up. “Very well.”

Ike ran his eyes over the mercenaries, children, and princess watching expectantly. “We can stay two hours,” he announced. “But if the Commander isn’t back by then, we cross back into Crimea.”

The mercenaries rested their tired bodies, bound scratches not worth Rhys’s magic, and applied soothing poultices to bruises and swollen joints. Mist and Rolf divided the supplies between their two groups, and Soren gave Elincia the map on which Greil had marked the route to Zarzi, Gallia’s capital. The map was not particularly detailed, but he conveyed the landmarks Greil had said to look for. She accepted the map gratefully and promised she would make her way there with all haste.

When this was done, Soren drank his fill of water and ate some of the tasteless hardtack they’d been surviving on for days. Two hours had passed before he knew it, and still Greil and the others hadn’t appeared.

“It’s time,” Ike announced, helping Mist don a heavy pack.

“Alright,” she agreed. Then waving to Elincia and Rolf, she called, “We’re going now!” Rhys had given her one of his extra staves as a walking stick, and for a moment, she looked like Elena.

“Good luck.” Ike hugged his sister once more in parting. “Watch your step and be careful.”

“We’ll see all of you again, I’m sure of it!” Elincia declared with a jaunty little bow that was only slightly off-balanced by her large backpack. “I know you will all be safe!” Everyone nodded and murmured their gratitude for her blessing, but Soren took no comfort in her false certainty.

“Let’s get moving!” Ike called, starting north. “Where to, Soren?”

Soren matched his gait. “We go west on the road we used before,” he answered, adding with a shake of his head. “Let’s find the commander before enemy reinforcements show up.”


	17. CHAPTER 17: RIDERS OF DAEIN

After re-crossing the river, they retraced their steps through the woods until they reached the path on which they’d first parted ways with Greil. From here, Soren led them west, and everyone remained quiet and wary as they searched for signs of conflict. Blood, footprints, crushed undergrowth, lost weapons and armor, or even corpses—any of these could be a clue to finding Greil and the others.

Twice they found a dead horse and rider, and once they found a dead archer draped over the limb of a tree. All three must have been scouts, and Soren could only guess Greil had orchestrated their demise. But the bodies were already cold and the commander long gone.

From the placement of the scouts, Soren guessed Greil, Shinon, and Gatrie had been picking at the larger force, teasing it, and drawing it far from the river crossing. Hours passed, and they strayed a considerable distance west. Sunset was approaching, and Soren wondered if they’d missed the commander going back to the rendezvous.

But then Titania spotted another dead scout—this one with one of Shinon’s arrows protruding between his eyes. “They must have been here not long ago!” she announced.

“Why come this far west?” Soren wondered aloud. “Their task is done, and yet they’re continuing to hover around the main force.”

“We can ask when we find them,” Ike declared. “Search the area!” Everyone spread out to search the ravine, even while the sunlight faded. When no one found even a footprint showing which direction Greil had gone, they regrouped. “They’re not here either,” Ike sighed, clearly disappointed.

“Ike,” Soren spoke up, his tone serious, “pursuing them any farther may be dangerous. I think it would be best if we returned to the rendezvous for now. It’s possible the commander may have followed another road into Gallia.”

Soren had been keeping them off the roads as much as possible to avoid confrontation with the Daein army, and he’d been careful to avoid any of the watchtowers along the border that Daein may have already seized. Because of this, they hadn’t actually seen the battalion Soren knew was nearby. But if they remained wandering in the woods after nightfall, their chance of running into a scout, hunting party, or encampment greatly increased. This was assuming their pursuit from Crimea was still a day away; if it was closer, then lingering here would be suicide.

After a long pause, Ike finally responded: “You’re right,” he said, to Soren’s relief. “Getting killed looking for them would waste everything they accomplished by breaking away. I guess all we can do is trust that they’re well and withdraw.”

Soren relaxed and offered Ike the barest nod and smile to show his approval.

But then Titania cut in. “Ike,” she said, suddenly pointing to a ruin on a distant cliff. “There’s a fort over there. Just now, for only a moment, I thought I saw someone.” Her voice was hopeful. “Shall we investigate?”

“What? Really?” Ike’s face brightened as he followed her gaze. “Yes, let’s go take a look.”

Silently cursing Titania’s intervention, Soren squinted at the ruin, which was caught between shadows and fading golden light. He saw no movement, no lights, no figures on its battlements or in its windows. But he couldn’t argue with Titania’s authority or the delusion she shared with Ike.

They hiked to the abandoned fort, and it was twilight by the time they arrived. Up close, the ruin looked sturdier than Soren had expected, but there was still no sign of habitation. Leaving the horses and their packs outside, the mercenaries cautiously pushed open door.

The groan of the old hinges echoed through the empty interior, which was murky with dust and the last glow of daylight filtering through the tall windows on the western wall. No fires were lit, but Soren thought he detected the scent of fresh oil.

The cliffside path they’d taken here hadn’t been significantly worn; nor did he see a single fresh footprint. But Soren estimated there was at least one other path leading to the opposite side of the ruin. Judging from the architecture, this was actually the back of the building.

The mercenaries fanned out to survey the room without straying far from one another. Soren evaluated the soundness of the structure, and he was no longer impressed. Although the fort’s exterior had held together like a shell, most of interior walls had crumbled away, and several of the pillars holding the second floor above their heads had collapsed.

He didn’t want to stay here. The dust looked disturbed, as if people had been here recently. He reached a couple fingers into the nearest brazier and found fresh wood and oil. He peered into the dark room, but night was truly setting in now, and the long shadows swelled into an impenetrable blanket. “It seems as though this place has been abandoned for a long time,” he whispered urgently to Ike. It was only a half-lie, and he was certainly willing to withhold his observations if it meant getting out of this place before they were caught in a battle.

Titania and Ike glanced around dejectedly. They didn’t seem to notice the footprints in the dust. “There’s no one here.” Titania hung her head. “Hm, I could’ve sworn I saw a silhouette, but I guess it was a trick of the light.”

Ike wasn’t as ready to give up. “Let’s take a look around. If we don’t find anything here, we’ll head back to Gallia.”

“Very well,” Titania agreed.

Before Soren could share his opinion on the matter, a sudden muffled shout came from the nearest stairwell. This was followed by a crash, clattering, and yet another shout from below.

The mercenaries wordlessly regrouped. Soren had a bad feeling they were in for another hard battle. If the entire Daein battalion was squatting here, they would be utterly outmatched.

The noise from the basement quieted down, but it was soon followed by the sound of footsteps coming from the adjacent stairwell leading to the upper floors. In response, the mercenaries melted into the nearest, darkest corner.

A small squadron of Daein soldiers appeared for a moment at the bottom of the stairs before rounding the corner and continuing to basement. Each soldier carried a torch, which cast their black armor in flickering light. They didn’t seem to notice the mercenaries on the other end of the hall, but a soldier in the back of the group split off, saying, “I’m right behind you!” to which one of his comrades raised his torch in acknowledgment.

The soldier who’d broken away jogged over to a pile of debris next to a fallen pillar. Sticking his torch into the brazier, he set it aflame in an instant. Then, widening his stance a little, he began fumbling with the belt under his tasset.

“He’s going to relieve himself,” Titania hissed in embarrassment. Although she was quiet, her voice carried. The soldier stopped to glance around nervously.

Soren was about to recommend they make a break for it and escape down the mountainside, when Ike spoke up: “Let’s announce ourselves. Anybody got a light?”

Soren winced at his overconfidence, but Oscar offered a piece of flint. Ike flashed it over the nearest brazier, the one Soren had tested himself. It burst into flame, and the soldier on the other end of the room, who’d just drawn his sword and retrieved his torch as if coming to investigate, suddenly yelped and leapt back.

For several seconds, the mercenaries and the soldier stared at each other. Then he seemed to come to his senses (which was more than Soren could say for Ike). “Here they are!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, retreating the way his comrades had gone. “I’ve found the Crimean mercenaries! Surround them!”

“Curses,” Ike said sarcastically, “Daein troops!” He seemed satisfied, perhaps at having found someone, even if it wasn’t Greil. “Do you think that was Father downstairs?” he asked Titania eagerly.

The sound of boots and clanking metal were coming from the western, northern, and eastern stairwells, from above and below.

“That was certainly not his voice who called out,” Titania replied, as if completely unconcerned. She adjusted the straps on her gauntlets.

“No, I mean do you think he _made_ that person scream?” Ike explained. “He must be fighting the Daeins here. We’ve found him!”

“We can hope so,” Titania replied.

“You’d better hope so,” Soren added sourly. “Or you’ve just brought a whole Daein garrison down on our heads for nothing.”

It was obvious soldiers were flooding into the main floor from above and below, even if the mercenaries couldn’t see them all. They were led by the one who presumably still had to pee and who was shouting: “There they are! There they are!” Most of the other braziers leapt to life, cutting the fort’s darkness into dancing shadows.

Titania gripped her poleax in both hands, and Oscar tested the reach of his lance. Both were capable of fighting on foot when the situation called for it. Boyd drew an axe from the loops on either leg and roared like a wild beast. Ike drew his sword and settled into the stance Greil had taught him. Rhys clutched his staff in both hands and looked nervous. Soren took out his tome and opened to a fresh page, wetting his lips in preparation for a spell. 

The Daeins, now in formation and with orders confirmed, finally began their advance. But the mercenaries weren’t going to wait for the soldiers to come to them. Ike led the charge with a wordless roar. He ran, sword raised, and the rest knew to run with him. Titania jogged beside him, and the pair were the first to lay their weapons into their enemies. Then came Oscar and Boyd. As for Soren, he attacked from a distance, staying close to Rhys and out of range of enemy spearmen.

The number of soldiers spending the night in this ruin was considerable, but Soren was relieved to see that it wasn’t the entire battalion they’d been tracking. The main force must have split, and he estimated the garrison couldn’t number more than sixty. That being said, it was still too many for the battle-weary mercenaries to handle.

Soren could only hope the sounds coming from the basement indicated Greil, Shinon, and Gatrie were also here. If they could unite soon, they may even manage to escape.

But Soren’s dreams of a graceful exit dwindled as the mercenaries plunged deeper into the fort. Whoever was commanding the Daein forces knew what they were doing. They were drawing Ike and the others away from the door and trying to separate them.

“Stay together!” Ike ordered, and they at least avoided this part of the enemy’s plan.

They were fighting on all sides now, and the Daein commander had begun sending soft-footed, armor-less soldiers into the shadows. Three such soldiers had already attempted sneak attacks when Rhys had drawn too close to a fallen pillar, Oscar a crumbling wall, and Boyd a decaying wardrobe (which had provided surprisingly good cover until the enemy soldier popped out).

“Who’s that?” Ike said suddenly. Soren follow his gaze but saw nothing. “Keep doing what you’re doing!” he called, “I’ll be right back!”

Before Soren could stop him, he left the sphere of his comrades’ protection and took off into a side room. “We must stay together!” scolded Titania, but he didn’t respond.

“Do we go after him?” Boyd asked in confusion, catching a Daein axe on his own and twisting it out of the soldier’s hand.

“Hold this ground!” Titania replied sternly. “Ike’s orders.”

Soren wasn’t sure if ‘keep doing what you’re doing’ qualified as an actual order, but it gave the mercenaries an objective. They took a more defensive formation, as if protecting the side room. However, the sound of fighting also came from that direction, and the fact that half the walls in this building were falling apart made compartmentalized defense completely useless.

A minute ticked by, then two, and Ike didn’t return. Soren was frustrated with the young, inexperienced mercenary, but he was also worried. “Ike can take care of himself,” he growled under his breath, followed by a Wind spell so forceful it knocked off a soldier’s helmet and tossed him into the nearest pillar.

The Daeins were disciplined, and they restrained themselves to maintain their phalanxes and formations. Soren wondered, if the enemy commander allowed their soldiers a free-for-all, whether the six mercenaries would be easily decimated, or if the chaos could be worked to their advantage.

Ducking to avoided a volley of three arrows, Soren reminded himself that now wasn’t a good time to speculate. The battle was challenging enough, and the enemy commander clearly knew what they were doing. Soren just hoped Ike would return soon, so the mercenaries could have their commander as well.

A flicker of bright red seized his attention, and his spirits soared, thinking it was Ike’s cape. However, it was actually a woman’s tunic, and the young woman wearing it was currently dancing into the fray. Or at least, she appeared to be dancing. Her long purple hair and the tails of her tunic whipped around as she spun, dipped, and lunged. Her arms, legs, and the length of her sword moved in graceful arcs, as if mere ribbons.

Mercenaries and soldiers alike stared in confusion. Her blade flashed under the chinstrap of an enemy soldier, opening his neck so a ribbon of blood joined her dance. She was clearly no friend of Daein, so the mercenaries accepted her as an ally. Fighting resumed, and Titania raced to support her.

Their defensive formation disintegrated without Titania as the keystone, but they were saved from being overwhelmed by Ike’s sudden reappearance. He charged into battle from behind the same gaping hole the woman had come from, but rather than join her and Titania, he peeled off to defend Rhys. “Regroup!” he ordered, then adding with a laugh: “I told you I’d be back!” He kicked a soldier to the stone floor, and with a thrust of his blade, made sure he didn’t rise again. Titania and the woman joined him from the left, and Soren, Oscar, and Boyd came from the right. “How’s it going?” Ike asked with a haggard grin.

No one answered, but Boyd rolled his eyes and everyone was panting hard.

“Any sign of Greil?” Titania grunted, butting a swordsman with the head of her poleaxe.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” Ike answered, trading a few blows with an axman.

“And who is this?” Oscar asked softly, glancing at the newcomer. Just then, a halberdier shrieked and raised his spear in a charge. Oscar lunged and easily pierced his jugular with the tip of his lance. The body flew forward with its remaining momentum, but Soren got out of the way.

“This is Mia,” Ike announced. “She’s fighting with us. She says the Commander saved her, so that means he’s close.”

The swordswoman smiled and waved excitedly. “Good to meet ya!”

Two more halberdiers started hollering and charged blindly (apparently not having noticed the fate of their comrade who’d tried the same tactic). Boyd hacked one in the knee, and Soren finished him where he fell. Titania took care of the other one, although it earned her a nasty gash on her upper arm. Rhys, who stood at the center of the group, rushed to repair the damage.

They were ready for another wave, but someone called over the battle: “Halt! Stand down!” It was a woman’s voice, and it came from the darkness at the end of the hall (or at least, the shambles of what was once a hall). The nearest soldiers fell back slightly, and Ike raised a hand to signal the mercenaries not to pursue. They stood tensely, taking a moment to catch their breath.

A bark of humorless laughter split the air. “Found you at last,” continued the voice. “You provided more entertainment than I thought you would.”

Soren squinted and saw an armored woman with emerald hair meander into the light of a brazier. But in a flash, she struck the fire with the head of her spear, and it snuffed out. Clearly hers was no ordinary weapon.

“Who are you?” Ike demanded.

“Me?” the voice asked from within the folds of darkness. “I am General Petrine, and my arrival marks your doom. Lament your fortune, dear children, for all hope is lost. You will not leave this place alive.”

The name sounded familiar. _General Petrine_ … Soren remembered the Mercenaries of Fayre speaking about her one night. “Petrine,” he wondered aloud. _This could be very bad,_ he thought. “Of the Four Riders?”

“Do you know her, Soren?” Ike asked without taking his eyes from the soldiers surrounding them.

Soren quickly reported what he knew: “She may be one of the four generals who are King Daein’s most trusted confidents. She is said to wield a flame lance of terrible arcane might.”

Petrine laughed again, and the sound was closer. “You’ve heard of me? Why, I’m flattered.” She appearing in the light of another brazier, and the flames seemed to arc unnaturally toward her. “I’ll try to make this easy on all of you. Give me the princess, and do it now! If I roast the girl along with you curs, I won’t be able to present her head to His Majesty.”

“Sorry to tell you this,” Ike explained smartly, “but the princess isn’t here. She’s been in Gallia for quite some time now.”

“What nonsense is that?” she scoffed, although she did appear surprised and perhaps a little worried. “Do you expect me to believe you? There’s no way mercenary scum like you could get past my troops!”

Ike was about to reply, when another voice boomed in answer: “They say that blind arrogance sows the field of its own destruction… Something tells me they were talking about you.” It was Greil’s voice, and it was coming from a room on the western side of the hall

The Daein soldiers scrambled to reform their ranks between General Petrine and this new threat as well as form a barrier between Greil’s company and Ike’s company. “Who-” Petrine growled.

Soren could see the commander’s head through a gap between the soldiers. Flanking him were Shinon and Gatrie. Greil walked forward and smashed his axe into the first soldier he encountered, killing him without even slowing his pace. Fighting immediately resumed.

“Father!” Ike called, running toward Greil heedless of the soldiers between them. The mercenaries fell into battle again, rushing to defend Ike and plow a lane through the Daeins.

Petrine, meanwhile, was quick to disappear. When the mercenaries had successfully reunited, her voice called from much farther back, near the northern stairwell. “Halt!” she cried, and her soldiers fell back to regroup.

Greil ignored Petrine, addressing Ike instead. “What’re you doing back here, you dumb pup?”

Ike seemed to catch his father’s game and turned his back to Petrine. “We got the princess safely into Gallia. When you didn’t rejoin us, we decided to look for you. The mission wouldn’t be complete until you returned.”

Greil shook his head. “What am I to do with you? Still, you did well. Good work, Ike.”

“ _Ha!_ ” Petrine exclaimed furiously. She struck the ground with the butt of her lance, causing a shower of sparks. Shinon eyed her while notching an arrow, but she was still too far away and there were too many soldiers between them. “Ignoring me proves you’ve got more guts than common sense. So you are the commander, eh?” She made a distinctly unimpressed sound in her throat. “And here I was waiting for some great hero. You’re just another sell-sword.”

“Am I?” Greil asked, surprised. He rubbed his chin as if the notion had never occurred to him. Boyd stifled a chuckle. Titania beamed proudly. 

“ _Ha ha_ ,” Petrine laughed mockingly. Her features stretched into an awful leer. “You know, I think I’ll _keep_ you. His Majesty, well… Let’s just say he enjoys strong men. Yes, I do think you’ll make a grand souvenir.”

Greil put his hand up to cover the side of his mouth and fake-whispered to Ike. “I’m blushing.”

“You don’t have to come along quietly, but I must have you alive. Dead men have no value, after all.” Petrine signaled for the battle to resume once again.

Ike and Greil continued to banter with Petrine while they fought, but Soren stopped listening. A large knight was advancing on him, and his Wind spells hardly scratched his armor.

Oscar jogged forward and sidestepped around the knight to draw his attention, which was a relief. While they traded blows, Soren looked for an opening, but there simply was none. A moment later, the newcomer—Mia—ran up and grasped his arm. Not accustomed to being touched, Soren jerked away and had to bite his tongue not to send a Wind spell flying in her face.

Mia didn’t seem to realize how close she was to accidental death, and her smile was still firmly affixed to her face. She was holding something out to him. “You must be Soren, right? That Ike fella said to give this to you.”

Soren was confused by this woman, and it wasn’t due to her cheerful demeaner in the midst of battle. She was fully facing him now, and there was no way she couldn’t see the mark on his forehead. And yet her eyes and grin were still wide, inviting, and excited. Soren may have garnered tolerance and even respect as a mercenary, but strangers never smiled at him like this.

Shaking his head, he accepted the old sheets of paper she was holding, which were scrolled into a loose bundle. As ever, he was careful not to brush her fingers, but she didn’t seem to mind and pressed them into his hands as if impatient with his hesitation. “Spells, right?” she asked excitedly.

Soren unfurled the papers as carefully as he could with the battle going on around them. Meanwhile Mia’s sword shot out to skewer the kidneys of a soldier behind him. Soren sidestepped the falling body and scanned the ancient language scrawled over the pages.

“Ike found them in one of the rooms over there.” Mia gestured carelessly with her blade. “He said to bring them to you. Can you use them?”

“They’re Fire spells,” Soren finally answered, gingerly adjusting the brittle paper. “And yes.” He’d been practicing with fire magic for years and had managed to make some progress with the Mercenaries of Fayre. Now he was reasonably confident he could conjure something deadly with these.

Smoothing the pages one more time, Soren tucked them into the spine of his tome for safe keeping. Then he carefully annunciated the words he’d already memorized: “*Spirits of flame, burn the flesh before me.*” A ball of fire materialized above and slightly in front of a Daein soldier. Seeing it, the man tried to run, but Soren had accounted for this. The fireball slammed downward with a perfect trajectory, dousing his whole body in flames. The man screamed as he burned, and Soren could feel the spell draining his energy. He let the flames fade before the unfamiliar magic took too much.

The soldier was burnt raw but still alive, so Mia finished him off with a flick of her wrist. Then she gave him Soren a thumbs-up. “I’d say that works!” she called, before skipping off to confront her next opponent.

Before Soren could try the spell again, he heard Greil’s voice sound above the battle: “Shinon! Gatrie! I’ll distract the general. You two grab Ike and the others and get out of here now!”

“Got it!” Shinon saluted from afar.

“But, Commander! We can’t leave you here on your own!” Gatrie called out.

“Idiot!” Shinon returned. “That woman’s no threat to the Commander, alright? C’mon, let’s go!”

“Move it! We’ll regroup in Gallia!” Greil roared, and Soren watched him meet Petrine’s lance with his axe in a shower of sparks.

“You’ll not escape me,” she hissed. “Not you or your little friends. You’re far too tasty a treat to pass up.”

Ike came running with three soldiers hot on his heels. The surviving Daeins had regrouped and become a seething mass between the mercenaries and where Greil and Petrine had just disappeared up the northern stairwell.

“To me!” Ike was calling. Soren and Mia were immediately caught in his wake, and the others were fighting to join them.

No longer able to ignore the pursuing soldiers, Ike spun around. Between the three of them, he, Soren, and Mia made short work of the Daeins. By the time they were done, Titania, Rhys, Oscar, and Boyd had assembled around them.

Ike explained hurriedly, even while he kept fighting: “My father has somehow convinced the crazy lady to leave with him and fight elsewhere. They’re gone now.” He grunted and blocked the swipe of a Daein axe with his blade. He counterattacked and decapitated the soldier. “We join up with Shinon and get out of here! Come on, don’t fall behind!”

Shinon and Gatrie were not far away, and they appeared to be clearing a route to the nearest exit: the western stairwell. “C’mon!” coaxed Gatrie, “There’s a way out down here!” However, this may not have been the best choice for an escape, because soldiers suddenly spilled up the stairs, causing Gatrie to hastily backpedal to fend them off.

Ike led the others in a support effort, and before long, they’d retaken control of this corner of the building. Escape was within their grasp, but Ike hesitated.

“ _Hmph!_ ” pouted a voice behind them. “You wretches! You’re not worthy of General Petrine’s attention.”

Ike’s fists clenched, and Soren knew it wasn’t the challenge that bothered him, but the thought of leaving his father behind again.

A man in the garb of a Daein fire mage approached with a small phalanx surrounding him as a personal guard. “I will roast your bones and present them to her as a trophy,” he sneered once he was satisfied he had Ike’s attention. In addition to his high-quality robes, he was lightly armored and had a ceremonial-looking knife on his belt. Soren couldn’t guess his rank, but he could safely assume he was the person Petrine had left in charge.

Including this man, there were only nine Daein soldiers left standing and able to fight. Ike glared, and the mercenaries stood waiting. Greil had ordered them to escape, but Soren understood his reluctance: there were nine soldiers left and nine mercenaries (counting Mia). They were shaking on their last legs, but victory was within their grasp. Even Soren couldn’t ignore that feeling.

But his fear of reinforcements was greater. Petrine had arrived halfway through the battle with additional troops, but Soren judged her entourage had been no more than twenty men. Over a hundred soldiers—more than half the battalion they’d been tracking—was still missing. But they couldn’t have gone far, and this battle had drawn on long enough that a message could have reached them. It was a legitimate threat that should be anticipated and avoided, and Soren had no doubt that was why Greil wanted his son and the rest of the mercenaries out of here.

He was about to remind Ike of Greil’s order, when he seemed to make his own decision. Ike stalked toward the new commander. “No trophies,” he growled, “No spoils. You’re finished.”

Knowing it was almost impossible to change Ike’s mind once it’d been made, Soren ran to support him instead. The rest of the mercenaries were right behind him. Everyone chose an opponent, and Ike’s was clearly the commander. Soren traded gusts for arrows with the last Daein archer, but he kept his eyes on Ike too. His friend seemed surprised when the first fireball plunged down on him, but he rolled, missing it by a narrow margin. “Whoa! So you’re a mage, huh?” Soren regretted not helping train Ike to better avoid and defend against spells, but he would have to learn on his feet now.

“I am, _vermin_ ,” the commander replied haughtily, “and I will see you burn to cinders!”

“We’ll see about that,” Ike returned, trying to close the distance between them before the man could finish another incantation. He didn’t make it in time and had to narrowly avoid another large fireball.

Soren finally cornered his opponent, and the next spell threw him against the wall, knocking him out if not killing him outright. The body fell limp, and blood oozed beneath his soft purple hair.

Turning his attention to the rest of the mercenaries, Soren saw that the battle was all but completely over. Ike’s arm and neck were burned slightly, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. Meanwhile the mage commander was sweating profusely as he attempted to outmaneuver Ike. But they were in close combat now, and Ike had the advantage. He slashed across the mage’s throat, and it was over.

Only one Daein soldier struggled to rise—a spearwoman who was reaching for her lost lance—but a single, well-aimed arrow from Shinon ended her life. The mercenaries let their heavy shoulders drop and released a collective sigh. They wiped the sweat out of their eyes and back through their hair. They testing stinging wounds and massaged knotted muscles. Gatrie tucked his helmet under his arm and plopped down, moaning about the worst fight of his life.

“I have to find my father,” Ike announced after a few moments, making it clear he had no intention of obeying Greil’s order now that the garrison had been defeated. “Where did he go?”

“This way,” Titania answered, heading for the northern stairwell. Soren debated putting his foot down and warning everyone to get as far away from this fort as possible. But he found himself following Ike and Titania before he could find the words.

The second floor was in just as poor a state as the first. But the ruin hadn’t come tumbling down on them yet, so Soren hoped it would continue to hold. The mercenaries followed the sound of grunting and clashing metal to a large hall in the center of the building. There were doors on each of the four walls and no windows. In the corners were cots and bedrolls, making it clear this was where the battalion had been planning to stay for the night. But the center of the room was entirely empty, making it the perfect arena for Greil and Petrine’s duel. The iron chandelier above their heads burned with candles, casting them in a spotlight. The general and mercenary fought vigorously, appearing evenly matched.

“Is my father…?” Ike asked Titania, watching anxiously.

“Don’t worry.” She shook her head. “Commander Greil’s the better fighter. He’ll be fine.”

Soren wondered if her claim was due to her eye as a warrior or her unwavering faith. Honestly, he didn’t know who would win this battle. Greil was an exemplary fighter, but Petrine was lauded as one of the four strongest people in all of Daein. Watching her now, Soren was astounded at the speed of her strikes and the complete control she displayed over her every movement.

However, he’d once seen Greil demonstrate speed, strength, and ruthlessness that no mortal could match. The day of the massacre, Soren’s understanding of what was possible had become skewed. He’d always wondered if Greil still possessed the key to that power, or if he would ever use it again. Just the thought of such a thing stirred his fear and quickened his blood. In his years as a mercenary, he’d never seen Greil struggle against any opponent, but now he was afraid of what could happen if Greil were forced into a corner.

“Dog’s breath!” Petrine cursed, breaking away from his axe and leaping backward. She was ready for Greil to pursue, but he didn’t. Both were panting hard and took the chance to control their breathing. “Who are you, man? You look like a common sell-sword, but you fight like a demon!”

“What’s wrong? Ready to surrender?” Greil wiped blood from a cut under his eye before returning both hands to the shaft of his poleaxe. 

“And admit defeat?” Petrine laughed, “Me? Don’t be absurd…” Eyeing the mercenaries past Greil’s shoulder, she smiled slyly. “When you fight me, you fight all of Daein.”

Just then, the thump of boots and armor echoed up the stairs and through the halls, proving her claim. The mercenaries ran to Greil, regrouping with him while Petrine retreated further. The fort was filled with footsteps and overlapping voices, people shouting commands to look for survivors and find the general. Soren’s heart sank into his stomach. Fresh Daein soldiers flooded into the room from the eastern doorway, spilling around Petrine and lowering large pavise shields to the floor. 

“Enemy reinforcements!” Ike announced, and judging by his voice, he was far from giving up hope. “Father, let’s get out of here. There are too many!”

“Looks like I’ve got no choice.” Greil shook his head. “This way!” He lunged for the western door, but it was too late. More soldiers entered here, and even more poured through the southern and northern doors a moment later.

“So now, the tide has turned, hasn’t it?” Petrine laughed, but the sound still held no humor. “All troops, attack! Kill them! Kill them all!”

“ _Hmm_.” Greil shifted his gaze around the room. “Looks like our luck’s run out.”

“Father…” Ike bit his lip in distress, perhaps surprised his father didn’t have more hope, or perhaps a secret plan.

These new soldiers marched slowly forward, with righteous anger in their eyes. No doubt they wanted to avenge their lost comrades, whose corpses they’d seen below. But perhaps they were wary too, confused by how such a small band had achieved such carnage. They all wanted blood, but none wanted to be the first to strike.

Soren examined the floor and tried to judge where it might be weakest given the collapsed walls and pillars below. Perhaps they could escape if they stayed closed together and drew the weight of the soldiers to a weak point.

As he considered this, he hoped Greil was devising a better strategy (maybe one that didn’t include falling twenty feet in a cascade of rubble). In the meantime, the mercenaries had assembled themselves in a circular formation, facing all sides, with Rhys in the center. Soren noticed he’d withdrawn his light tome. Shinon gritted his teeth and pulled an arrow. The leather of Titania’s glove cracked as she tightened her grip. Boyd circled his wrists as if spinning his axes in slow motion. Mia didn’t look cheerful anymore. The soldiers were nearly upon them, so Soren stopped thinking for a moment and flitted through his tome until coming to a page of unused _Wind_ spells.

Greil put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You have to survive this, Ike. I’m not going to lose you, not in this place. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Commander!” everyone replied in unison.

Judging by Petrine’s snort of laughter, she must have found their determination unbelievably amusing. Soren had to agree with her. They were fooling themselves thinking even one of them could make it out of here alive. Before Soren’s eyes, heavily armored soldiers in tight formation were failing to fall through what should have been the weakest point in the floor. Soren’s plan was a bust; the mercenaries had no escape. They would have to fight, and Soren found himself agreeing with Greil—if anyone was going to survive this, he wanted it to be Ike.

“You’ve nowhere to run,” Petrine called. “Curse whatever gods you hold, for they have abandoned you.”

Her taunt was answered by a chorus of roars reverberating through the building, and for a moment, Soren thought the fort might be collapsing after all. But the roars were animal in nature—snarling, wet, hungry, vicious sounds. 

“What was that?” Ike exclaimed.

The soldiers stopped dead in their tracks, and Soren could see panic in the whites of their eyes. More Daeins suddenly surged through the western door, but they weren’t attacking, they were fleeing. They pushed their comrades blindly, trying to get away from the entrance. They offered stuttered cries: “B-b-b-beasts! Gallian b-beast soldiers! Run! W-we’re going to be torn to shreds!”

Confusion and fear spread like fire through the ranks. “Stand your ground, all of you! Don’t panic! I will personally slaughter the first man to turn his back on the enemy!” Petrine growled, and for a second, her threat seemed to work.

But then a single voice wailed in fright: “No!”

The fear was not for Petrine but whatever he could see bounding through hall on the other side of the door. A ferocious-looking blue cat soon appeared. The soldiers surged toward the other exits, while the cat’s claws and fangs tore apart any soldier it could reach.

The mercenaries were like an island in the tide of fleeing soldiers, and around Petrine was another island. She—and those within reach of her lance—refused to retreat. “ _Pfeh_ ,” she spat. “Worthless cowards, one and all.”

Another two subhumans spilled in after the first, and after killing only a few soldiers, they let the others escape. “Beasts!” came a scream from the northern entrance. A handful of soldiers were chased back into the room by three more Gallians. The Daeins died almost as soon as they’d appeared. Then, like their comrades, these subhumans stood in place and watched the remaining soldiers escape behind Petrine. Soren was surprised by their restraint, considering their raised hackles and bared teeth.

When stillness and quiet had fallen on the room, the blue cat padded forward, transforming into its human shape without slowing its steady strides. It was a male, and now resembled a beorc man except for the ears, tail, and skin markings. “Attention, Daein soldiers! Leave this place at once!” it commanded Petrine, “If you do not comply immediately, you will face Gallia’s full strength!” The other subhumans roared to emphasize his words.

“Threaten me all you like.” General Petrine scowled at the cat-man. “It’s not going to frighten me off. If I leave, His Majesty will have me executed. I’d rather die here in battle, with my honor intact.”

They continued to glare at each other, with the mercenaries standing in the middle, glancing from one to the other. Although he was standing on Crimean land, Soren was watching an altercation between Gallia and Daein, and he didn’t know what either side would do.

The moment was broken, however, when someone new entered the room behind Petrine. He was a tall, broad man encased from head to toe in black armor. His helmet covered his entire face so even his eyes were lost in shadow. Despite his heavy armor, he moved fluidly and almost soundlessly. “Withdraw, General Petrine,” he said in a voice that was clear but eerily warbled behind his helmet

“The Black Knight,” Petrine greeted him. Her voice was caught somewhere between awe and frustration. She clearly respected this man, even if she resented his order.

“As for our King,” the aptly-named Black Knight continued, “you have nothing to fear. I will explain things to him. Take your men and go.”

Petrine hesitated but finally obeyed. “All troops, fall back,” she said to the few remaining soldiers who guarded her. They departed through the eastern doorway, but the Black Knight lingered, staring at the mercenaries.

“ _Hmm_ ,” Greil hummed as if in deep thought.

“He’s staring at you, isn’t he father?” Ike whispered.

“Yeah, he is,” Greil replied without looking away from the strange man. Then he nudged Ike behind him and walked forward so he stood between the mercenaries and the knight.

The cat-man stomped forward until it was standing beside Greil. “Hey!” it shouted at the Black Knight, raising both arms, “Are you planning taking us all on by yourself?”

The knight did not reply. But after another few seconds ticked by, he slowly turned and followed Petrine. Greil continued to stare at the open door, even after he’d disappeared from view.

“Father?” Ike asked nervously.

The cat-man turned to them with a smile and clapped its hands together. Soren saw its mismatched eyes and realized it was the same one that had been in charge of food dispersal back in Sileas’s village. He didn’t look a day older, and although Soren knew subhumans aged slowly, it was quite unnerving. He fell back slightly and tried to think of more practical things. This could be a new threat. They were still in Crimea; no Gallians should be here. He wondered if Gallia intended to take advantage of Daein’s invasion to seize Crimean land for itself.

“Come with us,” the cat addressed Greil, “There’s someone waiting to see you outside.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” was Greil’s response. “Please lead the way.”

Glancing around, Soren could see that Shinon was livid, Gatrie and Mia were nervous, Rhys was scared, and Oscar and Boyd were confused and uneasy. Titania and Greil were the only ones completely at ease. (In fact, Titania was beaming.) But they all followed Greil obediently, even though Greil himself was following a pack of subhumans.

They exited the ruin via the front entrance, although their supplies and horses were still on the other side. From here Soren could see a column of torches marching north through the ravine below. It appeared General Petrine, the Black Knight, and the rest of their troops were truly vacating the borderlands.

Satisfied this threat had been nullified, Soren turned to the subhumans. Six more were stationed here as if on guard, and a moment later, Soren realized what they were guarding—Princess Elincia was waiting on the front steps with Mist and Rolf. She’d been foolish to cross back into Crimea, even if she’d brought new pets with her, and Soren marveled at how close the Daeins had been to capturing their quarry.

“Father! Brother!” Mist shouted, seizing Greil and Ike with enough force to make her brother stumble. They would have all fallen if Greil hadn’t remained firm, and there they stood while she squeezed them and cried tears of relief.

Rolf bounded up the remaining steps to meet his own brothers and embraced them just as fervently. Oscar rhythmically stroked the boy’s hair with a bloody palm and seemed as relieved as he was tired.

Elincia climbed more conservatively, although her smile was as wide as either Mist’s or Rolf’s. Her entwined hands were pressed against the base of her throat as she surveyed the mercenaries. Titania approached her, thanking her for the reinforcements.

One of the subhumans standing guard saluted to the blue cat and whispered something in its ear. With a nod, the cat turned to Greil and Ike, asking to speak to them privately. Extracting themselves from Mist, they descended and walked a safe distance.

Soren sat on the edge of the steps, in the shadow of the fort, and watched them converse. Greil seemed lost in thought, and Ike was doing a disproportionate amount of the talking. But he couldn’t hear a word of it.

Knowing he shouldn’t spy, Soren tried to relax and recover after the battle. This meant easing his sore limbs, examining his wounds, and judging which ones, if any, were worth Rhys’s attention. He felt a fog of sleep crawling over his mind and fought to stay awake.

Titania and Oscar went to retrieve their horses, and Gatrie, Mist, and Rolf helped bring the bags around. Meanwhile, Rhys and Elincia were tending Boyd’s and Shinon’s injuries (although Boyd was mumbling about not being worth the princess’s attention). When she returned, Titania distributed water, bandages, and vulneraries. With one last glance at Ike and Greil, Soren gave up his reclusive position so he could collect his share of the supplies.

By the time he was finished dressing his wounds, the confab was over. Ike jogged up to them, and the mercenaries gathered around. “Ranulf says he was on patrol when he found you?” he addressed Elincia.

“Yes,” she answered with a bob of her head. “We were on the road when Captain Ranulf and his unit intercepted us—” she gestured at the cat-man and his entourage “—They were not entirely surprised to see us. Gallia knows of Daein’s invasion and has been increasing their border guard to help refugees. They were quite accommodating, and I was able to send a letter of asylum to King Caineghis. I am heartened to know it is on its way to Zarzi as we speak, but I could not stand to leave the Greil Mercenaries to an uncertain fate. Upon the messenger’s departure, I entreated Sir Ranulf’s aid for your rescue.”

Ike nodded. “We’re lucky you did. You really saved us.”

Elincia smiled, but then the expression flickered away. “There is more… I’m sure Sir Ranulf told you.”

“You mean what his spies found out?” Now Ike seemed equally glum.

“What is it? What happened?” Titania demanded, looking from Ike to Greil. But it was Elincia who answered:

“My mother, father, and uncle are dead. The army is shattered. Daein has already declared its conquest a victory.” Her voice was faint, but she didn’t cry.

The others looked aghast (and Titania looked particularly affected), but Soren wasn’t. “What options lay before us now?” he asked, addressing Greil, even though he didn’t seem to be listening.

When he didn’t answer, Ike did: “Ranulf’s team is going to bring Elincia to Zarzi as fast as they can. But the rest of us are going to stay at a place called Gebal Castle just inside the Gallian border. Another laguz escort should come for us in a day or two, right Commander?” Ike looked up at Greil as if wondering why he was staying silent.

Greil just hummed noncommittally. Soren didn’t know what was more surprising—his willingness to give up their employer to the subhumans so easily, or his complete lack of attention. He wondered if Petrine had concussed him during their battle, but he didn’t see any signs of a head wound. Ultimately, he just had to trust Greil knew what he was doing.


	18. CHAPTER 18: THE COMMANDER

The subhumans had acquired a horse (whose saddle they stripped of Daein insignia), and atop it the princess waved before disappearing into the night. When she was gone, the weary mercenaries picked themselves up, and Greil led them to Gebal Castle. Although it was dark and the Gallian roads narrow, he seemed to know the route like the back of his hand.

When they finally arrived, the sky was starting to brighten. Everyone was thoroughly exhausted, and Greil wasted no time assigning each of them a room. If anyone was suspicious of his familiarity with a Gallian fort, they were too tired to ask about it.

They poured into the main hall, ready to stumble off to their assigned rooms, when the unexpected presence of an unhitched wagon and four sleepy horses gave them pause. A brief investigation revealed people sleeping in the beds the mercenaries longed to lie down in.

Fortunately they were human—no ears or tail to be seen. Still in their bedclothes, the people met with Greil, blearily explaining that they were merchants who’d fled Crimea. They’d been pursued by Daein soldiers and lost one of their members at the border. Now they were just squatting here trying to figure out what to do.

Soren’s mind was fading into a half-sleep even while he watched the exchange, and perhaps out of mutual exhaustion, both parties agreed to trust each other and cohabitate. There were plenty of rooms, and Greil saw everyone safely billeted. He also doublechecked that all the gates were barred before going to bed himself. Soren had a good view of the fort’s entrance from his room, and watching Greil in the dark, Soren wondered if those Daein generals would actually pursue them this far. 

Turning his attention to his current lodging, Soren used the last of his energy to inspect the room. The bureau and desk were empty save for a few sheets of old paper and plenty of dust. The wardrobe was also empty save for two bats that seemed to call it home. Shooing the creatures out the window, he decided to leave the shutters open. The room was musty, but the straw mattress was dry and not too moldy.

Lying down, Soren thought of the merchants and considered the possibility of their being Daein spies. But he was simply too tired to worry about it for long. He thought about Gebal Castle and tried to determine if it had been constructed by humans or subhumans. But again, this line of thought simply took too much effort.

Finally he thought about Greil, a man who was still a mystery to Soren despite their years together. The commander had been oddly subdued since escaping Daein’s grasp, and Soren wondered why. Between the invasion, the princess’s plight, and the mercenaries’ current predicament of being stuck in Gallia, he supposed there was plenty to keep Greil’s mind occupied. And yet that didn’t explain why his behavior had changed so suddenly after forcing General Petrine to flee and being saved by his beastly friends. Perhaps the knight in black armor had something to do with his preoccupation, but Soren couldn’t guess what. In the end, his mind gave out on him, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke, the sun was high and his body ached from head to toe. He considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but his stomach wouldn’t let him. He was starving, and even hardtack sounded delicious right now.

He dragged himself from the room, determined to find out where Titania had stored their supplies. His nose, however, let him to the mess hall, where four baskets were piled high with fresh fruit, vegetables, meat, and fish.

Greil was here, as well as Titania, Mist, Rolf, and a couple of the merchants they’d met last night. “Where did this come from?” he asked the mercenaries.

“Our laguz friends delivered it early this morning,” Greil answered, kicking out the chair across from him. “Take a seat.” He appeared his old self again.

Fillets of salmon were grilling over the coals in the room’s central, oven-like hearth, but no one was currently attending them, so Soren filled his plate and replaced what he’d taken with fresh pieces from the basket. Grabbing a handful of greens to augment his dish, he then took the seat Greil had offered.

The merchants sat at a separate table near the windows, which were open to the breeze. The day was already hot, and the fire smoldering in the hearth wasn’t helping. The pair had clearly helped themselves to the gifts of food, but they seemed disinclined to socialize with the mercenaries. Soren wondered if it bothered them that they were eating food delivered by subhuman hands. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with it himself, but his hunger easily won him over and he dug in.

Mist and Rolf soon finished their meals and bid farewell. They said they wanted to forage for mushrooms in the forest, and Greil told them not to go far. Not long after this, the merchants also left the room. For a few minutes, Titania and Greil chatted about yesterday’s battles, and Soren listened idly.

But then Greil said, in a voice that was obviously a dismissal, “Titania, I’d like to speak to Soren alone for a moment,” and Soren nearly dropped his fork in surprise. He didn’t know what Greil wanted to say, but he had a feeling it wasn’t good.

“Of course, Commander.” Trying to hide her affront at being dismissed, Titania stood with poise and strode from the hall.

They were alone now, and Soren found he was having a hard time meeting Greil’s eye. “What is it, sir?”

“Titania says you advised Ike against coming back for me and the others,” Greil began. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Soren admitted. “At the time, I thought it the best course of action. Or, nonaction, as it were.”

Greil nodded. “But you stood by Ike when he chose to ignore your advice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you didn’t try to stop him pursuing me and General Petrine?”

Soren hesitated and shook his head.

“Did you think that was the best course of action at the time?”

“No,” Soren answered honestly. “I knew there was a chance reinforcements were on their way… But arguing with Ike could have been a waste of time equal to simply going back for you.”

Greil’s mouth twitched as if he found this amusing. “Do you trust his judgement?” he asked, and his voice was serious again.

Soren was surprised by the question, but his answer was immediate: “Implicitly.” Then he rushed to explain: “He led us well yesterday, even if I may have disagreed with him at times.”

Greil nodded. “That’s good.”

Soren said nothing as he waited for whatever question might come next.

“You might have noticed,” Greil began again, “that since you’ve returned from Melior, I’ve been deferring to you for certain tactical advice.”

“I’ve noticed,” Soren answered simply.

“And you’ve probably been wondering why that is.”

“I have.”

Greil nodded again. “Well, you must’ve also noticed I’ve been giving Ike more responsibility. For me, training him to be a part of the company is the same as preparing him to lead it. When I’m gone, the Greil Mercenaries will be his.”

Soren said nothing. Perhaps he’d been wrong to assume Greil was back to normal.

“We’re at war now, and anything could happen. If I die, the company will go to Ike a lot sooner than expected.”

“We’ve escorted the princess safely to Gallia, sir,” Soren pointed out, hoping to distance himself from the uncomfortable things he was saying. “Soon our job will be over, and so there will be little to no occasion for such a thing to occur.”

Greil tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you’re right, but we can’t safely return to Crimea after this. Not right away. We’ve got to figure out a plan, and call it instinct, but I don’t think the fighting is over yet.”

Soren couldn’t deny he had the same doubts and fears. “That may be true.”

“Anyway, when Ike takes over, he’ll have the chance to dissolve everyone’s contracts and put the company to rest or take up the title of commander himself. If he chooses the latter, I’d like you to serve as his strategist. Be his right hand as Titania is to me,” he explained.

Soren could hardly understand what he was saying. “But sir, surely-”

“I know Titania will be a good aide for him too, but he’ll need both of you to make up for his inexperience and to keep him grounded. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, lad. I know you’d do well.”

“Thank you, sir” Soren stumbled through his words, “Of course… Of course I will serve the company any way I can.”

Greil seemed satisfied with this answer. He pulled a few sheets of paper out of his pocket and unfolded them. Soren soon recognized them as the contract he’d signed three years ago.

The last page, however, was new and written in fresh ink. Soren recognized Greil’s jagged handwriting. “I’ve added this addendum to your contract. Take it, read it, and if it all sounds good, sign it and return it to Rhys.”

Soren accepted the papers.

“I’ve signed it already, and there’s a pay increase in it for you considering this your training period now. If Ike signs it in the future, the increase doubles. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Greil nodded and leaned back slightly in his chair.

He wondered if there was more he wanted to say, but after a few moments of silence, Soren abandoned his unfinished plate and made to leave.

“Wait,” Greil called him back.

“Yes, sir?”

“One more thing…” He leaned forward again, but Soren didn’t sit down. He continued in a lowered voice. “I know I don’t have the right to ask this of you but… If Ike makes the wise decision and chooses to dissolve the mercenaries, I would like him and Mist to live here in Gallia where it’s safest for them. At that point, you would be free to go wherever you like…but I wonder if you would consider staying with them and watching over Ike for me. I know you have no love for Gallia and it can be hard for your kind to live among laguz, but-”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Soren cut him off. He’d already broken into a cold sweat, and he hated the power Greil’s words had over him. He continued in a rigid voice: “It would be difficult for any human to live among subhumans, and surely Ike and Mist would detest such a life. Let us hope you live for decades to come, so the mercenaries are not dissolved after all.”

Greil seemed disappointed, but not surprised, by Soren’s reaction. He nodded and leaned back again. “I thought that might be your answer.” He sighed deeply. “At any rate, you may want to choose your words carefully here. You should use the terms ‘beorc’ and ‘laguz’, as Titania and I do, rather than ‘human’ and ‘subhuman’, so not to upset our hosts.”

“I will take that into consideration, sir.” Soren left the mess hall with the revised contract in hand, and Greil didn’t try to stop him this time. On his way out, he passed Oscar, Boyd, and Gatrie, and he was glad the conversation hadn’t ended a moment later. 

“Ah, come in boys, take a seat,” came Greil’s greeting. “I was just about to go in for seconds.” He sounded like his old self, but now Soren knew better. He was pretending. Something was weighing on his mind so heavily he had to hide it from the others.

Titania surprised him, leaning against the wall next to the door to his room. “Soren,” she said, “Hello.”

“Hello again, Titania,” he offered cautiously.

“Did your meeting with the Commander go well?” she asked, obviously trying to sound casual, but Soren knew she was offended that Greil had excluded her.

“Yes, it did,” he half-lied. The promotion was an honor, even if the foreboding talk about Greil’s hypothetical death and his insinuations about Soren’s blood had been less pleasant.

“Would you mind-” Titania began, “Could you tell me…what you discussed?” 

Soren narrowed his eyes at her, wondering why she was being uncharacteristically vulnerable. “It was a private meeting between the Commander and myself. I’m sure if he had wanted you to know its details, he would have asked you to stay.” He was pushing her, trying to see how off-balance she really was.

She pulled her weight off the wall. “I only ask because I’m worried! Something’s wrong, I know it, but he won’t tell me anything.”

Soren waited several seconds, but she didn’t break. So he held up the papers. “He added an addendum to my contract, a wage increase.”

Titania instantly deflated. “Oh, is that all? He’s been mentioning it for a while—that he thought it was time to renegotiate your contract again. He was going to do it when you got back from Melior… If that was all, why not tell me?”

He lowered the papers. “I wouldn’t presume to know.”

“You’re sure there wasn’t anything else?” The anxiety in her voice was palpable.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” Soren returned coolly.

Titania sighed and departed down the corridor.

When she was gone, Soren entered his room and laid the contract down on the desk. He sat and considered everything Greil had said. The commander had certainly given him plenty to think about. He couldn’t blame Titania for being worried. Something was wrong.

After signing the contract, he tracked down Rhys, who’d become the company’s unofficial records keeper since leaving the base. The sickly healer was resting in his room. To Soren’s surprise, Mia was waiting outside.

“Soren!” she greeted him in an excited whisper. She also seemed to be holding contract papers. “Are you here to see Rhys too? I think he’s sleeping…”

“So wake him up.” He knocked on the door and, not hearing a reply, opened it.

Rhys was lying on his bed, curled up in a ball, breathing softly. His orange hair was a slick mess on his forehead, and he looked even more feeble without his robes. The tops of his cheeks were red, and his skin was shiny.

“He has a fever again,” Soren noted unsympathetically, before snapping his fingers a couple times next to Rhys’s exposed ear. “Wake up.”

Mia entered hesitantly. “Hey!” she scolded. “If he’s sick, you shouldn’t-”

Rhys woke up with a start, and Soren backed away. Rhys moved himself into a sitting position, while Mia lunged to grab the mug of water off the bedside table and helped it into his hands. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Rhys nodded, although he looked queasy.

“He gets like this when participating in too many battles over a short a period of time,” Soren explained. He held out his contract. “The commander said to give this to you.”

Rhys seemed to take a moment to comprehend and then nodded, accepting the papers and setting them on the bed’s coverlet.

“Oh, mine too.” Mia placed hers on top of Soren’s.

“…So you’ll be joining us?” Rhys offered a friendly smile. “It’s been a while since we had a new recruit.”

“Glad to be part of the team!” Mia saluted proudly.

Although Soren had assumed that was why she was here, he was still surprised Greil had offered her a job. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had interest—people came to their base presenting themselves as new hires. But Greil had always turned them away, saying they were at capacity. 

“What other changes has Greil been making?” He pinned Rhys with his gaze. “He just increased my wages to four shares. Is a share even worth anything anymore?”

Rhys sipped his water. “It’s probably worth more, actually. The Commander cut his own wage down to only one share.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He says he doesn’t need money, so long as the company’s needs are met.”

Soren considered this and frowned. The commander had never had a lavish lifestyle, but he would sometimes go out for a pint with Gatrie, or he’d buy new clothes for himself and his children, and sometimes little presents for Mist. Had he accrued enough savings he no longer needed a source of income? It almost seemed Greil wasn’t planning to live much longer, and that frightened Soren. He needed more information. “When did he do this?”

“When you returned from Melior.”

“You mean when war broke out with Daein…” Soren shook his head. “Anything else?”

Rhys hesitated but answered: “He’s made up paperwork that covers Mist and Rolf as wards of the company, so they’ll start getting a little stipend.”

“And what does Titania make of all this?”

Rhys seemed uncomfortable. “Maybe I’ve said too much already… Greil said not to speak of this until things settled down, not even to Titania.” Soren knew he wasn’t in the habit of keeping secrets from her, and his adherence to Greil’s order thus far was striking. “I-I’m sure the Commander is just thinking about the future.” His voice was resigned.

“Yes.” Soren agreed, although his heart wasn’t in it. “He would want to be prepared for any eventuality.”

After listening attentively this whole time, Mia finally found her voice. “What a generous guy!” she exclaimed. “I mean, I knew he was nice when he saved me from those Daein soldiers and gave me a job, but wow.” She shook her head as if lost for words.

As satisfied as he was going to be with this conversation, Soren left abruptly.

Mia lurched after him. “Good to meet you again, Rhys!” she called over her shoulder. “I hope you feel better soon!” To Soren’s annoyance, she seemed to be following him. When he took the next turn, she was right beside him.

“What do you want?”

“Ms. Titania said you were the most recent recruit next to me. Any advice for a rookie?” she asked.

“Don’t let Titania hear you call her ‘Ms. Titania’,” was his answer.

He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but she snorted with laughter. “Duly noted!”

Soren made another turn, just to see if he could get rid of her, but she remained at his side. “I don’t have any advice,” he said in annoyance. “Nobody is a ‘rookie’ here. You obviously know how to handle yourself in a fight, and you fared well enough in the last battle. Go make friends with one of the other mercenaries.”

Mia didn’t seem offended. “Why thank you,” she said, “You know, I come from a long line of master swordsmen. Everybody in Melior wanted a chance to study swordsmanship at our school, but we only took the best. That is, until the day-”

“I don’t want to hear your life story,” Soren cut her off. He picked up his pace, and this time, she let him go.

“Well, see you later then!” she called, still unbothered.

Soren cringed but kept walking. Her inane positivity would make her popular among the other mercenaries. She was going to fit in well here (much to Soren’s distaste). 

After getting his bearings in the unfamiliar fort, Soren sought the baths he’d heard were in the lower levels. Someone had already pumped several basins of water. There was a stone furnace to heat it, underneath which was already a starter of dry wood and kindling. While the fire heated up, he washed himself with the cold water, raising goosebumps on his skin. The hot water was for his travel-soiled and battle-stained clothes (which honestly needed it more).

While he worked, he continued to debate whether Gebal Castle was a human or subhuman construction. Everything was made of carved wood and stone, with very few metal pieces. Wooden plugs held beams together, and in some places the stones were fitted so snugly there didn’t seem to be any mortar. The entire place was clearly ancient and yet had withstood the centuries far better than the cliffside fort they’d fought in yesterday. Soren dared wonder if this was the difference between human and subhuman craftmanship and didn’t like what the question implied.

Whatever the fort’s origins, the flags flying outside were undeniably Gallian—bearing the symbol of a fighting lion, a crescent moon, and what appeared to be crawling daisies. They were in Gallia, and Soren imagined he smelled the sour odor of cats in every dank corner. Looking at the soap in his hand, he wondered why it had been here. Surely the subhumans preferred rolling around in the dirt over a real bath. But it was here, and it smelled of lavender. These wells and furnaces were here, and the amenities were nothing to sneeze at. And he was here too—playing the role of humble guest in a kingdom of animals. 

After drawing more water and setting the baths back the way he’d found them, Soren dressing in the only clothes he had left and set about sewing the holes in yesterday’s garments while they were still sopping. When he was finally able to hang them out to dry, he tracked down the ingredients he needed to make a binding paste and carefully inserted the new Fire spells into his tome. Setting this to dry as well, Soren stomach reminded him it was already past midday. Little chores like were always slow and burdensome the day after a battle. His mind and body felt sluggish.

The mess hall was even hotter than before. Oscar was stoking the hearth, in which he was roasting some of the meat and vegetables with his own seasonings, along with a small pot of mushrooms Mist and Rolf must have contributed. In another part of the hearth, he’d erected a house of bricks, which Soren knew meant he was baking bread or travelling biscuits. Soren’s stomach gurgled. Bread had been one of the items missing from the subhumans’ contribution (possibly because they didn’t cook or eat it themselves).

While helping himself to the food, Soren continued to contemplate his surroundings and everything that had happened. The mercenaries owed a bunch of subhumans for saving their lives. Their employer—a young, impressionable princess—had not paid them for protecting her and was now dozens of miles away (not that she’d had the means to pay them in the first place). King Ashnard had already declared his victory, and one of his top generals knew their faces. They could not easily return to Crimea, but that wasn’t the plan anyway. Once their subhuman babysitters arrived, they would travel deeper into Gallia and supposedly reunite with the princess, but for what purpose, Soren couldn’t see. To make matters worse, Greil was acting strangely—almost morbidly—as if he knew something he wasn’t telling anyone else.

“Soren!” Ike clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him from his thoughts. “You look so serious—what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Soren recovered from his surprise and replied indifferently: “I’m always serious,”

Ike smiled, and for a moment, Soren’s sense of imminent doom melted away. He allowed Ike to chatter at him for the next hour or so, and it was the most at ease he’d felt all day.

His anxieties returned in full force by evening. Greil had been dodging questions all day; he was acting strangely, and now everyone realized it. An ominous melancholy had fallen over the fort, and by dinnertime even the most upbeat in their group (namely Ike, Mia, Mist, and Rolf) had succumbed to it. The merchants, who’d begun to mingle among them at noon, now avoided the mercenaries as if they had a plague.

Soren turned in early, and although he was still tired, he couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to tiny sounds echoing in the old stone halls. Eventually a faint light illuminated his window, and he abandoned all effort to sleep. Moving a chair to the window, he sat and crossed his arms over the sill. Someone had opened the castle doors, and candlelight from the main hall was spilling into the bailey. Standing in the glow was Greil, who seemed to be taking in the night air.

After a few moments, Ike ran out after him, coming to a sharp stop when he saw his father hadn’t gone far. They spoke briefly, but Soren couldn’t hear a word. Then they unbarred the main gate in the curtain wall, passed the outworks, and walked until the forest swallowed them. They bore no torches or lanterns, and Soren didn’t fathom where in Tellius they could be going.

He remained at his window, watching the light of the full moon come and go between the rain clouds. The minutes ticked by. A quarter-hour. A half-hour. But still they had not returned. Soren slipped on his boots and was about to investigate, when he saw a stir of motion in the dark. He trained his eyes on the spot and saw only Ike returning. His gait was slow and despondent, but eventually he made it back in the bailey. His hand was on the gate door when he suddenly stopped. He stood frozen for several seconds, and then twisted around, dashing back into the night.

Soren knew something bad had happened, or was happening, or was about to happen, and although he didn’t know what, he decided to alert Titania. Seizing his satchel and newly repaired tome, he ran to her room and pounded on the door until. She emerged a moment later with sleep in her eyes. Her red hair, which was usually in a long braid, was a massive tangle. “Whaah?” she groaned. “Are we under attack?” She glanced around with heavy-lidded eyes.

“No, but the commander and Ike went out a while ago and have not returned.”

Titania grew suddenly alert. “But Commander Greil told no one to leave the castle. Where would he go without consulting me first?” Throwing the door open, she ran back into her room, grabbed a cord from her bedpost, and began roping her mane into a more manageable ponytail. Still in her bedclothes, she grabbed her poleaxe, its harness, and her riding boots. She was finishing the laces when a loud roar echoed in the distance. Titania froze, her eyes wide. “We must wake the others! We have to find them!”

At the thought of Ike being torn apart by subhuman beasts, Soren was overwhelmed with the impulse to run off on his own. But he knew Titania was right about waking the others, so he did as she ordered. Everyone was filled with the same urgency. They grabbed only footwear, weapons, and torches. The merchants peeked out of their rooms, frightened by the commotion, but none of the mercenaries had time to explain.

The sky had opened up by the time they exploded past the curtain wall, but no one complained about the heavy rain. “Fan out in pairs!” Titania ordered. “Find them!”

But her instructions were unnecessary. As soon as they passed the outworks, they stumbled to a halt. Ike struggling toward them at the edge of the forest. He was limping, lopsided, and doubled under the weight of Greil’s body. For a moment, the mercenaries could only stare. Then everyone started shouting at the same time:

“Greil!” cried Titania.

“Commander!” came a chorus of voices.

“Boss!” yelped Shinon.

“Father! Brother!” came Mist’s shriek of fear.

“Ike!” came the scream from Soren’s own throat, against his will.

He was running with everyone else. Titania and Oscar leapt off their horses, which continued to run in circles, eyes wide and chest heaving as they caught the panic. As he got closer, Soren could see both father and son were leaving a trail of blood in their wake, and Greil’s knees and feet were carving ruts in the mud. Every few steps, Ike staggered and nearly dropped him. His face was ashen from blood loss, and his eyes were glazed over as if he couldn’t see any of them.

But perhaps he did sense that he could finally stop, that his friends would help him from here—or perhaps his strength just gave out. He collapsed into the mud just as Titania’s hands found Greil’s head and shoulder.

Most of his weight fell on Ike, and Soren immediately plunged his hands under his friend’s armpits to pull him out. Gatrie and Oscar were helping too, and Titania and Shinon turned Greil over so the two bodies were free of each other. Rhys stood by, trembling and wringing his Heal staff between his hands.

Soren checked Ike’s pulse: faint, but still there. His eyelids fluttered, and he muttered almost inaudibly: “A little longer… Stay a little longer…”

Titania was checking Greil’s pulse, and tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t- I can’t,” she was saying, approaching his neck from various angles. There was a massive wound in his stomach, and his guts threatened to spill if they pulled him in the wrong direction. Soren didn’t see how he could be alive.

“Rhys, heal him now!” Titania ordered.

This jerked Rhys into action. He fell upon Greil’s body, feeling his head and his neck, pressing his ear to his heart. “He’s dead…” came his feeble words.

“Just try!” Titania demanded.

Rhys obeyed, leveling his staff over the wound. Soren had seen him do this countless times in battle, and his hands had always been steady. But now they shook uncontrollably. “*Heal*,” he commanded, but there was no green light. “It-it won’t work,” he said after a few futile seconds. “It won’t work. He’s gone…”

“Then heal Ike,” Soren spoke up, his voice low and cold. “Before he joins the commander.”

Rhys nodded weakly and adjusted his potion so he was now leaning over Ike’s body. “*Heal*,” he breathed, bending his head and staff as in in prayer. The green light spread over him this time, and the worst of Ike’s wounds began to close.

Only then did Soren look around and see Mist kneeling in the dirt, her forehead on the ground. Her loose hair was clenched in both fists, and her back was arched as if in pain. Her mouth was open, and she appeared to be screaming although she was hardly making a sound. Tears, snot, and saliva oozed from her face into the dirt.

“Boyd, get Mist out of here!” Titania ordered suddenly. “She doesn’t have to see this!” Boyd happened to be standing next to her, staring in dismay. Titania’s harsh order snapped him into action, and soon he was helping Mist up, murmuring encouragingly. He lifted her as if carrying a child, her weight apparently nothing to him in this moment. Freeing one hand, he took Rolf’s, and the three proceeded inside.

“Gatrie, Mia, get Ike inside! Rhys, stay with him. Soren, get a blanket for the Commander,” Titania continued. “Shinon keep a look out! Oscar, help me calm the horses.”

Soren hated leaving Ike behind, but he understood they’d need to wrap Greil if they wanted to move his body without leaving his intestines behind. He rushed back into the main hall, where he passed Rolf and Mist sobbing and rocking together. Boyd sat beside them, pressing his palms against his face.

Soren ran into the nearest room, which happened to belong to one of the merchants. Luckily she was awake, standing in the doorway with a pink shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. “What happened?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

Soren didn’t answer, merely grabbing the coverlet from her bed and running back out. In the main hall he saw Gatrie and Mia carrying Ike’s unconscious body. They lowered him to the floor while Rhys urged them to be careful. Mist released Rolf and scrambled to her brother’s side.

As much as Soren wanted to do the same, he had a job to do. Soon he was outside again, running to where Titania was stroking Greil’s hair. Oscar was standing with the horses’ leads in his hand, and Shinon had an arrow pointed into the woods. “Here, here.” Titania took the blanket and wrapped it tenderly around Greil’s body. Soren helped by holding one end. She wrapped him twice and then snapped her fingers at Oscar, who unhitched his mare’s reins to use as binding. 

Oscar and Titania tried to get Greil onto her stallion’s back, and Soren could only watch them struggle. But then Gatrie and Boyd reappeared, and between the four of them, it was an easy task. The commander’s eyes had been closed before, but with all the commotion, they’d begun to open slightly. Half-lidded, they stared unseeing. Oscar led the horses while Titania kept a hand on Greil’s leg. The solemn procession began its march into the castle.

Soren forced his legs to move too, but it was hard. He suddenly felt the mud was sucking as his feet. He was no stranger to corpses, but this shook him. Those marble eyes belonged to Sileas, to Gorgov, to the children in the street whom Greil had slaughtered. But now they were in Griel’s own eye sockets. It seemed incomprehensible.

Once inside, Soren saw Ike under Rhys and Mist’s care, and he felt a little better. Ike had survived; that was what mattered. His entire body felt numb at the mere thought of losing his friend.

For several hours, they held a vigil. But exhaustion tugged at them, and they slouched and leaned where they sat, trying to stay awake. Eventually Titania told everyone to rest. Rhys gave an herb mixture to Mist to help her sleep, and he put a bit in Ike’s mouth, so he wouldn’t wake too soon. Oscar carried Rolf to bed. Gatrie and Mia helped get Ike to Mist’s room, so neither would be alone when they woke. Shinon went to his own room after first saying to Gatrie: “A word when you’re done.” Gatrie had grunted as if he understood.

The merchants emerged again, and they helped Boyd and Titania barricade the gates, lock the castle’s entrance, and draw the siege shutters on all the windows. Although there hadn’t been a peep from the forest, the mercenaries were no fools. Someone or something had killed Greil, and whoever or whatever it was, it was still out there. 

Greil’s body was left wrapped with an additional blanket in a corner of the main hall. The horses kept their distance as if they could smell death. Soren eventually returned to his own room and fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke early, and his first thought was if Ike was awake and if he’d yet spoken. The castle was quiet, but Soren knew he wouldn’t be the only one awake. He first checked the main hall, where Greil’s body was a shadow in the corner. Ignoring the horses that approached him looking for breakfast, he went to the mess hall, where he found Titania, Rhys, Boyd, and most importantly, Ike. There was food between him and Titania, and her hand was still on the table as if she’d just offered it to him. But his head was bowed, and he wasn’t eating.

No one was saying anything. Soren walked around to sit beside Boyd and get a glimpse of Ike’s face, but no one acknowledged his presence. They just stared at the boy as if waiting for something. Finally, he spoke: “The Black Knight killed him.”

“The Black Knight? That Daein soldier who called for retreat at the ruins? Who is he? Why did he return? Was there a battalion with him? How did you escape?” Titania’s questions came in a rush, and Ike didn’t seem to register a single one.

They were not the right questions anyway. “What message does he have for us?” Soren asked simply. “And if there is no message, why did he leave you alive?” Titania glared as if she resented the question (or maybe his tone). Ike didn’t answer, but his eyes did flicker to life for a moment. Silence lay heavy over the group. Soren hated this.

Eventually Titania sighed. “Take your time, Ike,” she said, although she didn’t seem to mean it. “You should just focus on recovering. Eat this.” She pushed the plate closer. Ike didn’t even look at it.

Soren couldn’t endure the silence or Ike’s pain. He grabbed a piece of fruit and left. He didn’t have much appetite either, but he ate it and tossed the core out the window when he reached his room. Then he set about packing his bag.

This didn’t take long, so he sifted through the company’s supplies until he had what he needed for the short journey back to Crimea. Only when he was back in his room, staring at his neatly packed bag, did he truly realize what he was doing.

He was leaving again. When Sileas had died, he’d left. When Elena had died, he’d left. When the priests had died, he’d left. Now Greil was dead, and another chapter of his life was inevitably coming to a close. His fear of the unknown outweighed his grief for the commander, and while the others mourned, Soren felt out of place.

He had been avoiding other mercenaries all morning, while silently going about his preparations. Therefore he was surprised when Titania knocked on his open door. Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and puffy from crying. Her skin looked dry, and her hair unkempt. Her arms were crossed, but her shoulders weak. She didn’t look like herself at all. “Ike and the others have chosen a place for Greil’s grave. They’re digging now,” she said hollowly. “The merchants had a shovel we could borrow. The spot is really lovely… There’s a nice view from the cliff. Mist chose it, and-”

“You’re rambling,” Soren observed.

Titania shook her head. “Everyone else is busy. Come with me to the place where Greil was struck down by the Black Knight. We need to collect Urvan and Ike’s blade… And I’d like to see the scene of Greil’s death for myself.”

Soren nodded hesitantly. He was curious too, but he was also reluctant to wander into the Gallian wilderness, where either subhumans or Daein soldiers might still be lurking.

“Let’s go then.” Titania turned as if Soren should come immediately. He quickly collected his tome and wondered if she’d seen his packed bag and knew his intentions. Then again, he doubted she would care.

Ike now had the choice to lead the mercenaries or disband them. But no matter which he chose (if he was even capable of choosing in his current emotional and mental state), Soren knew in his heart it was time to move on again. If Ike did choose to preserve the company, Soren could never accept the officer position Greil had proposed only yesterday. At the time, he’d expected many years to pass before he would have to fill such a role. But now—with Greil gone, Ike in mourning, and war around them—Soren could see no place for himself among the mercenaries.

Wrapped in his thoughts, Soren barely noticed when they passed the spot where Ike had emerged from the woods last night. But there were still red-brown stains in the drying mud, and these caught his eye. Now he paid attention to the trail Ike had left, which was easy enough to follow. Titania walked ahead and said nothing.

Eventually they came to a small clearing with a fallen log and a view of the sky. Sunlight was pouring down, illuminating the scene of the fight. Last night’s heavy rain had washed away most of the footprints and blood, but the evidence was clear enough.

Titania hefted Greil’s mighty poleaxe. Although Soren didn’t know the weapon’s story, he knew it carried a name: Urvan. And he knew enough about weaponry to know it was an old, very well-made weapon. Titania gazed at the now-pitted blades of the double axe heads as if she could read them.

Soren scanned the ground until he saw the hilt of Ike’s sword submerged in drying mud. He retrieved it only to find it had been cleaved in two. The other half of the blade was stuck in the dirt several feet away. Even though the weapon was now useless, he retrieved the other half, leaving the smaller shards wherever they were embedded in the rain-washed ground. There were fresh footprints here, and Soren recognized them as Ike’s. He must have come back this morning. (and Soren mentally reprimanded whoever had left him unchaperoned). “Are we done here?” he asked Titania.

She was still looking around as if lost. There was no sign of the Black Knight, and it was impossible to know which way he’d gone (though, Soren suspected north, back to Crimea and his troops). Neither was there any indication why he’d come to kill Greil only to spare Ike.

“Tell me again what you saw last night,” Titania said, finally tearing her eyes away and heading back.

Soren walked abreast with her now. “The commander left the fort first,” he reported, “and Ike ran after him. They conversed briefly before setting into the trees together. Later, Ike returned on his own. But he then appeared to change his mind, or perhaps he heard something. Either way, he ran back to Greil. That is when I woke you.”

“And why did you not think to wake me sooner—when the Commander left with Ike despite his orders that no one leave the fort?” Titania gripped Greil’s poleaxe tight to her chest, while her own was slung across her back.

“Because they were indeed the commander’s orders,” Soren replied coolly. “And he was well within his authority to exempt himself.”

Titania had no response. They walked in silence, and when they arrived at the fort, she took a small trail southeast rather than entering it. Soren dumped the broken sword at the base of the outworks and followed her. As expected, she was heading toward the gravesite.

The trees gave way to a small cliff, beyond which was a sweeping view of a lake surrounded by mountains. This region was rockier and far less forested than the land they’d just trekked through. A mound of soil had been raised just before the rocky portion of the cliff, and the rest of the mercenaries were staring at the spot. Mist clutched a woven crown of daisies in her hands.

They parted to let Titania through. With a loud cry and an enormous swing, she struck the packed earth just beyond the mound, and Urvan’s blade bit deep. Tugging to make sure the axe was wedged firmly in place, Titania then stepped back to examine her makeshift grave marker.

None of the mercenaries had reacted to her violent shriek, but now a few bowed their heads. Mist strayed forward hesitantly, as if she might lose her way. When she reached Urvan’s long handle, she slipped her loop of flowers down so it rested on the axe head. Then she stepped back, and Titania took her hand.

Mia, Rolf, Rhys, and Oscar all laid their own wildflowers around the axe, and only when they were moving did Soren finally get a good look at Ike. He was standing like a statue, starring into the middle distance.

Not knowing what to do, Soren debated leaving now, but he didn’t want to miss any important conversation about the mercenaries’ future. So he stayed and endured the grief-stricken silence. Eventually, Titania suggested they each tell the story of how they’d met Greil and come to join company.

The mercenaries complied unenthusiastically. When it was Soren’s turn, he merely said, “Commander Greil gave me a job and a place to stay when I needed one,” and did not elaborate. Most of the others’ stories were the same, so no one questioned it.

Everyone else included a ‘thank you’ in their testimonies, but Soren didn’t see the point in thanking someone who couldn’t hear him. The others seemed to be addressing the axe or the mound of dirt, but these things were not Greil. Greil was gone; pretending to talk to him was foolishness.

And perhaps the rest of mercenaries understood this, because after the testimonies (given by all except Ike and Mist), silence fell again. This time, Titania didn’t attempt to break it. Minutes ticked by, and eventually Shinon and Gatrie were the first to leave. Then Oscar hefted Rolf onto his back and also departed. Mia apologized and left, followed by Rhys. Boyd said something about getting back to his brothers and disappeared. Finally Soren had to admit Ike wasn’t going to say anything to anyone yet, so he left too. Back at the fort, he saw Titania returning just after he’d reached his room. Hours passed, but Ike and Mist didn’t reappear.


	19. CHAPTER 19: CASTLE GEBAL

Soren wandered the castle, debating when he should leave. A couple hours before sunset, he saw Shinon and Gatrie depart via the backstairs. The stone staircase led to old trees and sheer cliffs, but it was a good way to slip out unnoticed. It led south, but Soren had no doubt the pair would circle around and head north to Crimea as soon as they could.

When their stuffed packs disappeared from view, he returned to his room to doublecheck his own bag. He wondered if he should follow their lead and weighed the danger of spending a night camping in the Gallian forest against the companionship of the mourning mercenaries. But the true reason he decided to stay was to tell Ike goodbye. He regretted not saying it last time, even if Ike had forgotten him anyway.

Soren went to the mess hall to grab something for dinner and found Titania, Oscar, and Boyd arguing in hushed tones. They stopped when they saw him.

“Have you seen Shinon and Gatrie?” Boyd demanded immediately.

“Yes,” he answered. “They left.”

“Seriously?” Boyd growled. “They actually left!”

Titania frowned. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Soren ignored the trio and procured his food. By the time he finished and departed, Titania and the brothers were still discussing what should be done to get Shinon and Gatrie to come back. But Soren thought this was a moot point. They’d had every right to leave. It may have been rude to go without first notifying Ike, but Soren did not particularly value politeness.

The sun set, and neither Ike nor Mist returned. Soren had been watching from his window, but concerned that he’d somehow missed them, he decided to wander the fort’s cool, dark halls instead. Castle Gebal was quiet, and none of the candles had been lit for the night.

After a while, Soren heard someone whispering (or rather, whimpering) nearby. Doing his best to muffle his footsteps, he followed the voice. “Commander…Greil…Why is this happening?”

When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Soren saw Titania sitting against the wall in the corridor. She was curled up with something pale in her arms. Pressing her face into it, she inhaled deeply. It appeared to be some sort of garment. “Why is any of this happening? Why now? First Crimea… And now you,” she mumbled into the fabric.

Soren took a step closer, attempting to ascertain if this was indeed Greil’s shirt she was sobbing into like a widow. But his step was too loud on the stone floor, and Titania’s head shot up. Clearly embarrassed, she tossed the shirt aside. Hastily wiping her eyes, she drew a ragged breath and got to her feet.

She didn’t say anything though, and Soren didn’t care enough to demand an explanation. So he simply turned to leave. He didn’t care whether she’d loved Greil, and he didn’t care to hear her excuses or listen to her story.

He took a few brisk steps but didn’t get far before stopping dead in his tracks. Ike was heading in their direction. His eyes hadn’t risen from the floor, and it was possible he hadn’t even seen them. Titania had lunged after Soren (perhaps to ensure his silence about what he’d just seen), but now she too was frozen. 

“Ike,” Soren warned in a low voice.

Titania wiped her face again, straightened her clothes, and made an obvious effort to compose herself. “Oh, Ike!” she finally greeted him. “Where’s Mist?”

He looked up for the first time. “She’s resting in her room,” he answered. “Rhys and Rolf are with her.” It was a relief to hear him speak again, and he almost sounded like himself.

“That’s good.” Titania attempted a calming smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “She needs to sleep. She’s been through too much. We all have… You should rest too, Ike.”

“I’ll be all right. Greif won’t bring my father back.” Ike drew a steadying breath. “I know I’ve been a burden on the both of you. Titania, Soren, I just need to thank you both for staying here with me.”

“Er, not at all…” Soren replied, feeling suddenly guilty. 

“There’s no need. Don’t trouble yourself,” Titania consoled.

“So.” Ike glanced around the corridor. “Where is everyone?”

“Ike, to tell the truth…” Titania knitted her fingers.

Just then, Oscar jogged around the corner. “There you are!” He shook rain water from his hair. “Boyd and I are back,” he reported needlessly. Boyd appeared a moment later. His steps were more like stomps, and his face was furious.

Titania acknowledged them with a resigned nod. “How did it go?”

“I can’t believe it!” Boyd burst, crossing his arms. “They just left, and they didn’t take one look back! Heartless scum! I’ll never forgive them!”

“Boyd? What’s going on?”

“Ike!” Boyd seemed to just notice his presence. He narrowed his eyes in concern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Ike said, clearly frustrated, “Tell me what’s happened. Start talking.”

“Well, uh, it’s,” Boyd muttered, “What I mean to say is…uh…”

Soren stepped forward. “Shinon and Gatrie have left us.”

“Soren!” Boyd gasped.

“What? There’s nothing to hide is there?” he asked simply. (And it wasn’t as if Ike wouldn’t notice.)

“They left? Both of them? Why did they…?” Ike frowned. “Oh I see. They left because of me, didn’t they?”

“Ike…” Titania didn’t seem to have the comforting words she wanted.

Boyd explained: “Titania told us you were going to be the new commander. Shinon just about exploded. He and Gatrie left not long ago.”

“We went after them,” Oscar added. “We tried to talk things out, but it was a waste of time.”

Soren was confused by the anger in their faces. Were they truly upset to lose Shinon and Gatrie? Shinon had always been a selfish bully, and although Gatrie was better, he could be twice as obnoxious. Yes, they’d been talented fighters, but Soren doubted the loss of two skilled mercenaries was the problem here. Were they angry that anyone had dared leave? Did they see it as a slight again Greil’s judgement? Soren decided not to advertise the fact that he’d been planning to go himself.

“We all knew that Ike was going to inherit the company, didn’t we?” Soren proposed, imagining he could instill order and logic if he was careful with his words. “It happened sooner than we wanted, but it was Greil’s decision.” He paused for a moment, controlling his tone. “If some of us aren’t comfortable with staying, there’s no reason we should stop them from leaving… As far as losing fighting strength is concerned, we can solve that by adding new members.” Soren feared he’d just committed himself to staying and clamped his mouth shut. He’d said what he had set out to say—to excuse Shinon and Gatrie’s desertion. But perhaps he had dug himself into a hole with those same words.

He hoped it wouldn’t matter. He was pretending to assume, as Titania and the others were, that Ike would take over command of the mercenaries. But they were stranded in a Gallian fort in the middle of nowhere, with subhumans on one side and Daein-occupied Crimea on the other. There was no place for their company to operate, no room for them to exist.

“How can you say that?” Boyd exclaimed, and it took Soren a moment to realize he was responding to what he’d said, not to what he’d been thinking. “After all the battles we’ve been through together, how can you say that?”

“Forgive me, Ike. I wasn’t able to stop any of this.” Titania swept a hand over her chest.

“It’s not your fault, Titania.” Ike shook his head. “They did what they felt they had to do. They didn’t want to lose their lives to an inexperienced commander.”

“Ike!” she scolded, “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m not saying that to gain anyone’s pity. It’s the truth… But even so, I have no intention of giving up command of this company.”

Soren couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. Ike was idealistic and naïve. He couldn’t see there was no longer a mercenary company to command.

“Ike? Then what will you-” Titania began to ask, perhaps having an inkling of the problem that was so clear to Soren.

“I’m going to follow my father’s wishes. I’m going to assume command.” Ike glanced around. “If everyone will accept me, anyway…that’s what I’d like to do.”

“Of course!” Titania said at once. Her moment of doubt had already vanished.

Oscar smiled warmly. “I’d already made up my mind. That’s what I was going to do all along.”

Boyd frowned. “What, so now you want me to start calling you ‘Boss’? Is that it?” He held his frown a moment longer, but then his face broke into a broad grin. “Well, I can do that. Boss it is!”

Rhys came walking down the stairs at the end of the hall. “I’m in too.”

“Rhys!” Ike exclaimed, turning around.

“Mist is asleep. I know I missed most of the conversation, but I have a good idea of what you’ve been discussing. Commander Ike… Yes, it does have a nice ring to it.”

“What about you Soren?” Ike turned to him, and he felt pinned under everyone’s expectant gazes.

“Ike…” He shook his head. _You’re not thinking! None of you are thinking!_ He silently screamed. _Where are we going to go? What are we going to do? The Greil Mercenaries are finished!_ He tried to channel these thoughts into acceptable words. But something went wrong, and the words that came out of his mouth were different than intended: “I’m not sure what help I could be to you. What place is there for me in this mercenary company, anyway?” He winced and held his tongue between his teeth, mouth closed, trying to keep his expression impassive. Suddenly new thoughts flooded his mind:

It had been his plan to separate from Greil. If they’d stayed together, they would never have ended up in that ruin. The Black Knight would never have seen Greil, and he would probably be alive now.

If not that, then after the battle at the river, Soren should have stopped Ike from going back for Greil. And if not that, he should have stopped Ike and Titania from ordering them into that ruin. If they hadn’t intervened and woken the garrison, Greil and the others might have gotten in and out, saved Mia and themselves, without General Petrine being the wiser. There would not have been a drawn-out battle. The Black Knight would not have seen Greil, and Greil would still be alive.

Soren had been lying to himself. There was still a place for the Greil Mercenaries to operate. They could unite behind Ike and continue to Castle Gallia, where they would lend Princess Elincia their aid. That had been Greil’s plan. That plan still stood. It was Soren who had no place now.

Silence had stretched through the hall while Soren’s mind collapsed. He was waiting for Ike’s response, but part of him never wanted to hear it. He wished he’d left hours ago, with Shinon and Gatrie.

After what felt like an eternity (but was in reality only a few seconds), Ike tilted his head and gave Soren a strange look. “You are so _weird,_ ” he said.

The whirring gears of Soren’s mind ground to a stop, and he had no idea how to respond.

Ike continued, shaking his head. “I’ve always depended on you, haven’t I? I need your tactical knowledge. I need your objectivity. You’re not going to leave me, are you, Soren?”

A tremor crossed Soren’s lips, and he wasn’t sure if it was relief or fear. The way Ike was looking at him now—did he remember their time together? Did he remember Soren had left after Elena’s death? He wished he could read Ike’s mind and understand what he remembered, what he knew, what he was thinking. Finally, Soren swallowed and answered: “Don’t worry. I’ll be here.” He added a mental affirmation he didn’t dare let Ike and the others hear: _I’ll be watching over you—not because Greil asked me to, but because you did_. His chest felt heavy and light at the same time.

Ike seemed satisfied with this response. “Thank you,” he said in return, and there was a small smile on his face. Perhaps his grief had ebbed. He turned to the others. “I know I’m not as experienced as most of you. I’m going to make some mistakes, but I’ll try not to let you down.”

Two days passed, and although Soren wondered why their subhuman escort hadn’t arrived, no one complained about the wait. Ike and Mist spent a couple hours at Greil’s grave each morning, and the others visited it briefly once or twice during this time. Only Soren and the merchants never strayed there, even when doing their part to forage around the fort.

The merchants had grown friendlier and more talkative as the cloud of grief faded. The fort became a homey place, filled with the scent of Oscar’s herbal traveling biscuits—his more flavorful variation of traditional hardtack.

The last batch was baking while Soren found himself lunching a bland blob of what was apparently rice porridge. Mist had made it since Oscar was busy. They’d already run out of the meat the subhumans had delivered and most of the fruits and vegetables. They were running out of fresh food, and even Soren hoped the escort would arrive soon.

He was pushing the thickening porridge around his bowl when Rolf came bolting into the mess hall. “Soren!” he gasped, out of breath. “You’d better take a look at this!”

He stood abruptly. “What is it?”

“Soldiers,” Rolf answered, with wide, frightened eyes.

Mist had obviously overheard and dropped her ladle onto the floor. “No!”

“I’ll check the gates,” Oscar volunteered, dousing the hearth.

Soren nodded and turned back to Rolf. “Show me.”

The boy led him out of the hall, up the stairs, and to the nearest window, which overlooked the fort’s eastern gate. Daein soldiers were marching out of the woods, apparently encircling the entire castle. The sky was overcast, and in the gloom, the soldiers looked like a solid dark mass. Squinting, Soren could see them organizing themselves in orderly rows and columns despite the drizzle above and pulling mud below.

Titania had been adamant about locking the gates when no one was outside, and Soren hoped no one was out foraging, or there would be nothing stopping the soldiers from pouring right in and overtaking them.

Closing his eyes, Soren drew a long breath. There was no time for hoping or panicking. He needed to keep a clear head and proceed with speed and caution. When he opened his eyes, he took off running. “Gather the others!” he called over his shoulder.

“On it!” Rolf sped in the opposite direction.

Soren needed to report to Ike and soon found him talking to Titania. “We should be receiving word sometime soon, but-” he was saying.

“Ike, I’ve got bad news!” Soren exploded into the room. “Look out the window!”

Understanding the urgency, both Ike and Titania rushed to the windowsill. From here they could see the northern wall, front gate, and outworks, beyond which the soldiers were assembling.

Before either could express their dismay, Rolf and the others came tripping over each other in the doorway. Mia already had her sword drawn. Rhys joined them at the window. “If I’m not imagining things, that’s a squad of Daein soldiers.” He groaned weakly. “Why do they have to show up now?”

“What gives?” Boyd demanded. “We’re inside Gallia’s borders, aren’t we? They must be out of their minds to pursue us this far!”

“If they’ve come this far, I’m sure getting out of here alive was never one of their priorities,” Oscar noted.

Ike just stared, unable to say a word.

“We’re in trouble,” Soren declared reasonably, “They have us completely surrounded. We cannot escape.”

“So many of them…” Titania leaned against the window frame as if suddenly weakened. “And so few of us… It doesn’t look good, does it?”

Ike clenched his fists. “Doesn’t matter,” he growled, “We have to fight.” He turned to the others. “Greil Mercenaries, ready yourselves!”

The change in Titania was immediate. “Yes, sir!” she crowed.

Soren nodded. (Ike was right, after all.) “I’ll begin formulating a strategy immediately.”

Mist charged in and seized Ike around the waist, crying. Ike comforted her, but Soren ignored them and left the room. He needed to get the rooftop to better assess the Daein numbers and positions.

“Help us fortify the gates!” he heard Titania order a merchant who’d just come jogging up (presumably to see what they were going to do about the soldiers on their doorstep. “Then get your people inside the main hall,” she continued before he could get a word out. “Can you keep Mist and Rolf with you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” agreed the man.

They rushed down the stairs, but Soren ran up a level. He quickly located the hatch door leading to the roof and jumped to reach the rope that would release the ladder. Once it was down, he crawled up and heaved the hatch open on old, reluctant hinges. Pulling himself onto the roof, he kept his body low while surveying the Daein squadron.

As predicted, they had the fort surrounded from the west, north, and east. A small trail of ant-like soldiers was also investigating the rocky land to the south and the staircase entrance. The majority of the forces were assembled in the northeast, where the road exited the forest and there was more open space.

It was difficult to see in the rain, but the formation and the presence of a standard bearer indicated the enemy commander was stationed behind the eastern regiment. They didn’t appear to be either Petrine or the Black Knight, which was a good sign. Without Greil, none of the mercenaries would survive another fight with one of Daein’s generals.

Soren took stock of their advantages and disadvantages. On one hand, this was a subhuman fort completely lacking in maneuverable battlements, anti-siege weapons, or even loopholes for arrows. It appeared the beast-men were completely ignorant of defensive engineering. But on the other hand, the mercenaries didn’t have the numbers to man battlements. Nor did they have a single archer anymore, so it was not a major loss. Furthermore, the Daeins had no siege weapons or ladders to use against the walls, and there appeared to be no dracoknights in the sky.

Castle Gebal was roughly constructed as two concentric circles. The outer fortifications were merely outworks designed to break momentum and divide the attacking forces. These had four openings: a ground-level one to the north, short sets of steps to the west and east, and a long set of stairs to the north. These entrances funneled the assailants through four minor baileys toward the inner wall, which surrounded the keep. There were three gates in this wall, all of which led to the main bailey outside the keep’s entrance. It was here that mercenaries would have to stand their ground. These gates were relatively close together, but even so, the seven mercenaries would be spread thin.

The Daein squadron far outnumbered their own. Soren estimated twenty in the eastern regiment, fifteen in the western regiment, ten to the south, and as many as thirty beyond the northern wall.

Soaked to the bone, Soren finally retreated from the roof. Jumping from the last steps of the swinging ladder, he ran to his room to retrieve his tome before meeting everyone in the main hall. Outside he could hear the Daeins chanting to intimidate their prey.

After relaying what he’d seen, he asked without pausing to catch his breath: “Do they have demands?”

Ike shook his head. “We called over the wall, but the only answer we got was the thump of a homemade battering ram. They’ve begun their attack. We can’t wait.”

Soren agreed. “If we surrender, we will be killed. They might interrogate us first for Princess Elincia’s position, but that is all we can hope for.”

“Somebody’s optimistic.” Boyd rubbed the back of his head without tearing his eyes away from the main doors.

“Soren, Mia, you’re on the west gate. Oscar, Titania, the east. Boyd, you’re with me at the main gate. Rhys stay on us, but check the others regularly. Got it?” Everyone bobbed their heads in unison. “Alright, everyone ready?” They nodded again. “Greil Mercenaries, move out! Don’t let even a single soldier break through!”

At this, they surged into the rainy courtyard and took their assigned positions. The merchants locked the doors behind them, and now only a special knock would allow the mercenaries back inside.

Standing behind Mia, staring at the old wooden door as it rocked against its hinges, listening to the cries of the soldiers on the other side, he considered Daein’s actions. To have sent a whole squadron into Gallia, Ashnard clearly didn’t care to avoid the Beast King’s wrath. Soren dared wonder if his conquest hadn’t ended in Crimea.

The drizzling rain had soaked him through again, and his robes felt heavy and cold. The pages of his tome stuck together. He could only stand here and wait for the door to fall.

Listening intently to the rest of the battle, Soren first heard the splintering of wood on the other side of the bailey. The metallic clang of weapons immediately followed, along with the neighing of horses and the screams of injured men and women. Titania and Oscar were fighting for their lives now.

Next there was a creak and a crash as the gate fell in front of Ike and Boyd. Turning to them, Soren saw the pair leap onto it, fighting to hold back the crush of armored bodies.

Finally his and Mia’s gate burst off its hinges. Mia leapt back, but Soren was ready with a spell already on his lips. He released a massive gust of wind that caught the gate before it could fall. It slammed back into the soldiers, knocking two to the ground and causing another pair to stumble.

Mia wasted no time slashing at their faces and necks while they struggled to their rise and defend themselves. The soldiers pushed the bothersome gate around until it leaned against the wall. The opening was narrow enough that only one or two soldiers could attack at a time. Mia did her best to fend them off, while Soren helped from behind.

Archers were already shooting at them from the back, and Soren did his best to knock the arrows out of the air and return fire. When he couldn’t do this, he and Mia ducked and dodged for their lives. They tried not to give the soldiers an inch, but they were inevitably losing ground.

Not long into the battle, Soren became suddenly distracted by a bolt of lightning that struck the ground somewhere behind him. He spun around carelessly, but the flash was gone. Rain continued to fall, but this wasn’t a thunderstorm and Soren was confused. Then another bolt hit the eastern gate, where Titania and Oscar were fighting. Now that he was looking, he could see that the bolt didn’t originate in the clouds. Rather, it appeared just a few meters above Titania’s head, electrocuted her and her horse, and threw her from the saddle. The Daein squadron had a Thunder mage in their ranks, and this was very bad for the mercenaries.

“Soren, a little help?” Mia said through gritted teeth.

He twisted back to her and resumed casting Wind and Fire spells. Mia was injured and bleeding badly on one side. Her blade work resembled flailing more than dancing now. But she couldn’t retreat, because without her taking the brunt of the soldier’s attacks, Soren would die within moments. 

Aware of this fact, Soren didn’t allow himself to become distracted again, and they both dug in their heels until Rhys finally arrived. He offered no word of greeting before seizing Mia and pulling her back several steps. The green light of his staff glowed, but Soren could see no more than that. He was determined to fend off the soldiers by himself until Mia was healed.

He used Fire to do this, despite the fact he was more skilled with wind magic. Fire was visible, and humans instinctively feared it. Chanting the incantation, he willed the flames to grow taller, rather than hotter, and encouraged it to spread into a kind of barrier. 

It seemed to work for a moment, but then a Daein spearman jabbed the point of his lance through the flames, straight toward Soren’s heart. Without time to move fully out of the way, it was all he could do to catch the strike in his arm just below his shoulder. He felt the joint pop out of place and the bone crack. Pain exploded down his arm. He lost all feeling in his hand and dropped his tome. The spell collapsed too, and the fire disappeared.

Rhys grabbed his hood and dragged him back before the spearman could make a lethal hit. With a high-pitched keen, Mia leapt back into battle. She swiped her blade down, cutting through one of the soldier’s wrists. The spear fell in the mud with Soren’s tome, and its owner howled in pain. Mia continue to fight, and Rhys was already trying to heal Soren’s arm.

The bones and muscles squirming to unite, but they couldn’t find the right leverage against the shoulder joint. He hissed in pain. “It’s dislocated you idiot!”

Rhys stopped and leaned his staff against the wall. “Ilyana!” he called, more loudly than Soren thought his voice was capable. “Over here, please!”

Soren was about to ask who in Tellius Ilyana was, when Rhys grabbed his shoulder with one hand and his arm with the other. He struggled to get the joint into place, and Soren gritted his teeth against the pain.

A moment later, a young woman with mauve hair loped over to them. She slowed to a timid stop when she arrived and clutched a yellow spell book to her chest. Judging by the Thunder tome, Soren assumed this had to be Daein’s mage, but she certainly didn’t look like a soldier and she wasn’t attacking them now. “I’m needed?” she asked softly, her voice nearly drowned out by the rain and the battle.

“Would you back up Mia?” Rhys asked.

“Which one’s Mia?”

“That one!” Soren snapped, pointing with his good arm at where Mia was desperately trying to keep the soldiers at bay. She’d already lost over two feet of ground. The Daeins were nearly through the short passage.

The woman—Ilyana—nodded and slipped behind Mia, where she uttered a spell and sent a brilliant bolt of lightning coursing down on the head of a Daein knight. Soren didn’t yet understand why this mage had joined them, but he was glad for the help.

Just then, Rhys finally got the joint into place with a painful, yet satisfying, click. Picking up his Heal staff, he finished the job. Soren used this time to examine the rest of the battle. Titania was still alive and had remounted her horse. Oscar was still fighting beside her. Ike and Boyd were still alive and fighting too, but the Daeins were mere inches from pushing past them and spilling inside.

Rhys finished, and although his arm felt stiff and ached to move, Soren knew he had to return to the fight. He rushed toward Ilyana and extracted his tome from the mud. The damage wasn’t too bad, and he quickly found the page he’d left off on.

Rhys disappeared to help the others, and the three fought together until someone called for Ilyana again. “That’s me,” she said shyly as she made her retreat. “Just so you know, this is not the whole force. They have reinforcements in the trees.”

“How do you kn-” Soren began, but she was gone before he could finish the question.

The battle drew on, and he dared believe the mercenaries could win this fight. But Ilyana’s warning was never far from his mind. Few of the soldiers remained, and they had stopped pushing forward. They were more hesitant with their attacks. They were careless, looking over their shoulders and leaving themselves open. He and Mia took advantage of this, but Soren guessed it was only occurring because the soldiers were anxious for reinforcements.

Soren hoped they wouldn’t be called; he hoped the Daein commander would order a retreat instead. But hoping was useless. Eventually someone blew a horn in the eastern regiment, and reinforcements equal to their original number poured from the woods, spilled past the outskirts, and slammed into each of the three entrances. The mercenaries were not shocked or dismayed thanks to Ilyana’s warning, but that didn’t change the fact that they were simply outnumbered.

Barely able to survive the initial surge, Ike and Boyd were pushed back. Soldiers flowed around them. "Retreat!” Ike called. “Everyone, fall back to the castle. Regroup! Regroup within the castle!” He, Boyd, and Ilyana were fighting while walking backward now, trying not to be surrounded.

Soren and Mia wasted no time turning on the spot and running toward the keep’s entrance. Rhys was already there, but he was hesitating to go inside. An arrow flew over Boyd’s head and pegged him in the hip. He crumpled to the ground.

Titania and Oscar leapt from their horse and slapped their flanks to send them charging through the Daein’s ranks. The soldiers let them go, set on pursuing the riders instead.

When everyone arrived at the doors, they instantly formed a protective semicircle around the fallen healer. “Get yourself inside, Rhys!” Ike ordered. He tried to protest but was clearly about to pass out. “Now!” Ike added.

Rhys performed the sequence of five knocks that would allow him inside, or at least, Soren assumed he did. He couldn’t hear over the sounds of fighting, but he did hear the door creak open before slamming closed again.

Despite Ike’s orders to regroup inside the fort, no one but Rhys went in. The Daeins were too close, and there was no way they could all get inside and lock the doors in time. Soren knew their position was hopeless, but he wouldn’t retreat while Ike still fought.

Over the following minutes, one by one, the mercenaries were hit with ghastly wounds and disappeared into the main hall just like Rhys. Each time they apologized, but to remain outside would mean to die. Eventually only Ike, Titania, and Soren remained guarding the door, and they barely covered it long enough to let Boyd get inside.

With only three left, no one else could retreat without letting the Daeins inside, and Soren had made his peace with this fact. He knew retreating would only stave off death a little longer anyway. The Daeins would break down the door as they had the gates, and Soren would rather die out here with Ike.

Eventually the moment came when he couldn’t stand any longer. He was bleeding out, although he couldn’t quite remember where the injury had occurred or how.

He fell, but it didn’t feel like falling. It was as if the battle around him had become overwhelming, as if the Daein soldiers were growing taller and taller until they looming high above his head. He slumped against the wall beside the door, and the rough stone felt as soft as a pillow. Soren was tempted to succumb to its comfort.

Black spots dotted his vision, and he felt he was listening to the battle from underwater. Titania collapsed, and now only Ike remained standing. Dimly, Soren was aware of a change that had overcome the Daein soldiers. They were playing now, fighting Ike one-on-one while the rest jeered and leaned on their blades. The battle was over; this was sport.

“ _Haa…haa…ah_ ," Ike panted in despair. "Blast! Not yet… Not yet… We will not fail!” He raised his sword again, deflecting another blow, but he didn’t have the strength to follow through with a counter.

Then, with a hazy surrealism that made Soren question if any of this was really happening, Mist was there. “Brother!" she cried.

They argued. Ike panted. Mist cowered. He defended her. The Daeins mocked them. It was like a nightmare: Soren was about to die, Ike was about to die, and even Mist was about to die. Everything was ending. There had never been any answers to all the questions. There had never been any purpose to all the pain.


	20. CHAPTER 20: LAGUZ

When Soren woke, he remembered all-too-clearly that he’d been lying in the courtyard moments from death. But he was inside now, and he was alive. Blinking slowly, he collected his thoughts and surroundings.

His clothes were still cold and wet, so he knew not much time had passed. Someone had brought him inside the main hall, stripped off his outer robes, and healed his mortal wounds. 

Despite his lightheadedness, he managed to raise himself into a sitting position. His body was utterly weak, and merely expanding and compressing his lungs felt like an exhausting exercise. He inspected the itchy red skin where wounds had been hastily healed on his stomach and chest, but at least there was no dark shadow of internal bleeding. The arm that had been broken felt numb, and the shoulder that had been dislocated felt especially achy. His head pounded, and the light seemed too bright. There was a bucket of bloody vomit beside him, and the taste in his mouth told him it was his even if he didn’t remember expelling it.

He was surrounded by the merchants and mercenaries, some standing, some sitting, some lying down. No one appeared dead at first glance, but Boyd, Mia, and Titania were still unconscious. Oscar, Rhys, Mist, and Rolf were paying close attention to Ike, who was standing a little distance away.

The merchants’ horses and wagon were still here, and someone must have retrieved Titania’s and Oscar’s steeds as well. They were both alive, although the stallion was lying down and panting hard. Most of the candles were lit, and the front doors were closed tight. There were no Daein soldiers to be seen. However, there were two new people in the room; a woman and a particularly large man stood six yards in front of Ike.

“So, uh…” Ike sounded dazed. “Are you two from the palace? Did King Gallia send you?”

Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the awkward distance between the two parties. As his mind cleared, Soren realized these were not people at all. They were subhumans. The female’s tail was twitching as if irritated, while the male’s swept in small, slow arcs.

“He did,” rumbled the male. His ears and tail were cobalt blue, while his hair and beard were a lighter, more electric shade. There were also blue markings like stripes around his eyes. “I am Mordecai, warrior of Gallia.” He spoke slowly and stupidly. “Your hair is blue. You are Ike. Is this correct?”

Soren couldn’t see Ike’s face, but he could tell by his posture, his stance, and even the looseness of his knuckles that his friend was exhausted but not seriously injured. His sword wasn’t drawn, which Soren thought was careless. Finding his tome beside him, he struggled to his feet while Ike answered: “That’s right—I’m Ike. You saved us back there. Thank you.”

Mist noticed Soren was awake and held up a canteen of water. He was racked with thirst, so he accepted it. But he didn’t take his eyes off the subhumans while he drank.

“Ranulf told me Ike is not a bad stranger. Mordecai and Ike… We will become friends,” the big one was saying. Soren scoffed between draughts.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who thought the idea was foolish. The smaller subhuman immediately snapped at her counterpart: “You don’t know that! You don’t know if we can trust him. It’s too soon to tell. He’s a beorc. A human. You know all humans have two faces.”

“Lethe!” Mordecai scolded in a deep voice.

“Beorc?” Ike addressed the female. “What’s that?”

She glared through feral eyes. “That’s what you are. We with the power are laguz. You soft, hairless things with no power at all, you are called beorc.”

Soren tightened his grip on the tome. He couldn’t believe such an accusation, nor such arrogance, could come from a creature that literally had two faces.

“What did you say?” Ike seemed miffed but not terribly angry. He still didn’t draw his sword. 

“Lethe! You are being bad.” Mordecai glanced at Ike apologetically. “The king forbids this. We cannot fight with beorc.”

The female—Lethe—didn’t heed his warning and continued her rant. “Most beorc call us by hated names, look at us with eyes filled with scorn. ‘Subhumans’? _Hss!_ Is that how beorc treat their friends? Is that how beorc treat their allies?”

“You’re right.” Ike shook his head and raised his palms. “Some of us use that name far too readily. I guess if we had thought about it, we’d have realized it’s not a polite term, but we didn’t know you by any other name. I’m sorry.”

Soren thought Ike was being generously diplomatic, but Lethe clearly wouldn’t accept the apology. “You knew no other name for us? Are we really so little to you, human? You, who forced us into slavery? How easily you forget. But we laguz, we remember! We remember how we have suffered at your hands. The king can say whatever he likes, I will not trust you. I warn you now—” she shook her head slowly, with murder in her eyes “— _never_ speak to me in such a way.”

“Lethe…” Mordecai sighed.

Soren couldn’t take it anymore. He walked toward Ike as steadily as he could given the fact that the room was spinning. “What’s your point? Did you come all this way just to complain to us?” He forced a sarcastic laugh. “Typical _subhumans_.”

“ _Scum!_ ” screeched Lethe, and Soren was oddly relieved she had reacted to his words. At least she was acknowledging his presence. She took a threatening step forward. “Those who use that name are enemies of Gallia!”

Mordecai growled in agreement. “Subhuman… Enemy… He is an enemy…”

Soren knew he should stop. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this must be the Gallian envoy they’d been waiting for. He understood, on some level, that these two subhumans must have arrived just in time to save their lives. He knew this, but he hated it. He understood that antagonizing the beasts could jeopardize Ike’s relationship with the Gallians and therefore Princess Elincia’s and all of Crimea’s. He knew this, but he ignored it.

His anger intensified with every breath, and his tiredness and pain melted away. He felt hot, and he could see nothing but the two subhumans in front of him. “You think you’re humans? The only thing human about you is your conceit! You filthy, hairy _subhumans!_ ” If the beasts disliked that word so much, he was going to use it to its fullest extent.

With a massive growl, Mordecai transformed. Instead of a blue-haired man standing menacingly before him, there was a blue-furred tiger with saber teeth and enormous claws.

“Mordecai! Kill him!” Lethe shrieked, pointing straight at Soren.

Perhaps his close call with death had diminished his regard for his own life, but Soren didn’t care at all that he was about to be mauled by the giant tiger. He had his tome in hand, and he flipped to a page free of mud.

These were advanced wind spells, but Soren didn’t think a regular spell would affect the beast. Mordecai released a dreadful roar and began bounding forward. Soren arranged his feet, prepared to sidestep at just the right moment and release his spell when the subhuman passed. But before he could, Ike ran ahead. He threw himself in front of Mordecai, arms spread wide.

Ike’s body made a sickening crunch as its velocity was instantly reversed. He flew, tumbling backward, landing and rolling several feet behind Soren.

“Ike!” Soren screamed and ran to him.

Ike was gasping for breath, trying to get himself onto his hands and knees. Finally his lungs seemed to find air again, and he drew ragged breaths. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and promptly clutched his ribs. “Ow…” he winced.

Rhys had also dashed to Ike’s side, reaching him at the same time. Now that Ike was breathing, the usually timid healer surprised Soren by pushing him away to get a closer look. He pulled up Ike’s shirt and started feeling his ribcage with expert hands. Soren didn’t have to be an expert to see that several were cracked. The area bloomed with blood just under the surface.

“What?” Lethe demanded, stomping closer.

“I-Ike…” Mordecai murmured. He reverted to his human shape and took a step back so he was standing beside Lethe again. “Ike. I’m sorry… I have hurt you… I did not intend to hurt you.”

Rhys held his staff to Ike’s broken ribs, and although he must have been as wasted as the rest of them, he proceeded to heal the bones with the remnants of his energy. When the light faded, he set the staff aside and helped Ike stand.

“Mordecai, this injury—” Ike winced again, clearly still in pain “—it’s nothing. I’m fine.” His voice was strained.

Now that his fear for Ike’s life had ebbed, Soren’s anger returned in full force. He rounded on the subhumans. “You’re nothing but a beast,” he spat, advancing on Mordecai again. He uttered the words of a wind spell he’d never successfully used before: Tornado. “*Spirits of wind, rip apart these skies, lay waste to my enemy!*”

A cyclone surrounded Soren, whipping up all the dust in the room and tearing the old rug as if the gusts were blades. The mercenaries backed up to avoid the gale. The tapestries bearing Gallia’s insignia waved in breeze, and all the nearby candles were snuffed out. Soren raised his hand, prepared to send the vortex straight at Mordecai. He fueled the spell with his anger and imaged he could even feed it his exhaustion and emptiness.

“Soren! Stand down!” Ike’s voice was nearly blown away in the storm, but he heard it. Grudgingly, he let the winds die.

“Why did you stop me?” he growled without turning around. “He hurt you! He could have killed you! We can’t let him get away wi-”

“If you hadn’t provoked him, none of this would have happened,” Ike replied steadily. “Right?”

“But-” Soren turned to face him. “I only…” His excuses died on his lips. Ike had been hurt because of his poor judgment. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he limped back to the rest of the mercenaries. Titania, Boyd, and Mia were all awake now, watching him blearily. The short walk felt like miles.

Ike nodded when he passed, but Soren couldn’t meet his eye. When he was finally back with the others, he watched Ike pull his weight off Rhys and clean up the mess he’d made. “Mordecai, Lethe, I apologize on behalf of my company. Please forgive Soren. It’s a poor excuse, but we recently lost…some companions. We’re tired, and we’re not thinking clearly.”

“Ike forgave Mordecai. So now I forgive Soren,” Mordecai replied. “No one need be angry.”

“I apologize as well. My behavior has been unkind,” Lethe said although she didn’t seem apologetic. “I forgot our mission, and I have blundered terribly.”

“Mission?”

“The King wants to see you. We are here to guide you to the royal palace.”

“Night is falling,” Mordecai observed gently. “Will leave tomorrow when Ike and friends are ready.”

Soren kept his mouth shut the rest of the evening, afraid to let his anger get the better of him again. Before the mercenaries retired to their own rooms, Ike told the story of how the two subhumans (which Ike insisted the mercenaries call ‘laguz’) had surprised the Daein soldiers from behind. Apparently they’d been so terrified by the beasts’ ferocity that they fled immediately. Now the two Gallians would sleep in the bailey, keeping watch in case the squadron returned.

Sore woke early, felt terrible, and wished he could sleep longer. But he knew they had to move out as soon as possible or Daein would return with reinforcements. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, so Soren first went to the mess hall, where several of the mercenaries were already awake. They moved slowly and rigidly, as if they’d all aged eighty years and now hardly managed to move at all in their arthritic bodies. Even when Rhys healed the worst of their wounds, it could take days to feel normal again. The muscle and skin always felt tight and sore, and healed bones were even more uncomfortable.

Rhys was predictably feverish again. He’d coached Mist through healing his own injury, but he limped as if the wound still ached. Now he sat by the hearth with a cup of tea in his hands. He had a blanket over his shoulders and was shivering despite being drenched in sweat. On the other side of the fire, Mist and Rolf were ladling out soup to everyone who came in. The two laguz were already sitting with steaming bowls. When he received his bowl, Soren made sure to sit as far away as possible.

Farther down the table, Titania still looked depressed, and Soren took this as a good sign she wouldn’t try to talk to him. At an adjacent table, the mage Ilyana was chatting with all four of the merchants as if they were old chums.

Soren kept his eye on the door as he ate, and when each mercenary entered, he sat beside them to obtain their report from yesterday’s battle. He could tell they resented being cross-examined so early in the morning, but Soren had his reasons. He even approached mopey Titania and the chummy merchants. The latter gave him permission to explore their stores later.

His meal long-finished, Soren jotted down everything he’d learned and began estimating the supplies they would need and the length of the journey to Zarzi. Of course, this would have been easier if he just asked their laguz guides, but Soren couldn’t bring himself to do it.

As he worked, he kept glancing at the door, waiting for Ike. Eventually he appeared, and although he looked like he’d hardly slept, that didn’t make him much worse off than everyone else.

The young commander went straight to the laguz. They exchanged a few words, and then Ike went to his sister, who gave him the last of the soup. He tousled her hair and said something brotherly Soren couldn’t hear.

He approached only when Ike sat down and started eating. “Good morning, Ike,” he began, feeling imbecilic. But guilt sweetened his tongue. “May I have a moment of your time?”

“What is it?” Ike yawned, “I’m listening.”

Soren couldn’t tell if he was still angry. He sat cautiously and rolled out the paper on which he’d been taking notes all morning. “Our expenses, our ability to fight, the current status of our troops,” he began. “These are all things you must know.”

“I see.” Ike glanced sideways at the paper while slurping another spoonful of the broth. “Having a grasp of that is part of the commander’s job too, right?” He didn’t sound excited and didn’t look at the paper again. “Understood. Let me hear it.”

“Very well.” Soren turned the paper toward himself and started at the top. First, he reconfirmed that the merchants would be joining them on the road to Castle Gallia. Next, he listed the weapons and armor that had been damaged, lost, or irreparably broken during the three most recent battles. Then he noted which supplies they were running dangerously low on (such as thread, flour, rice, and soap) and how long their current stores would last. To end on a high note, he dove into an analysis of the Daein fighting style citing observations each of the mercenaries had made. “Well, that’s it,” Soren said when he was done. Ike had not said a word through the entire lecture.

“I think I’ve got most of it,” Ike said, but his eyes were practically glassed over.

That being said, he didn’t look the least angry or irritated. In fact, the slight twist of his eyebrows could be a sign he was actually trying to focus. “I’ll give you a report before and after each battle from now on. I hope that helps,” Soren offered.

Ike didn’t comment on his assumption that there would be further battles, and Soren didn’t elaborate on it. “I’m sure relying on you for all the details.” Ike gave a small, tired smile. “Keep up the good work.”

Soren was instantly relieved. “Thank you, commander,” he said, and he let the word rest on his lips a moment. Ike was his commander now. “I will do my best. But if I have your leave, I will see how preparations are coming.”

Ike smiled again. “You have my leave,” he answered, and there was a hint of a laugh in his voice, as if they were playing a game.

Determined to take care of everything so Ike could rest, Soren first set out to find the merchants. Although the Greil Mercenaries didn’t have free reign over their merchandise, the leader of the group, Aimee, had said they could buy whatever they needed.

As expected, they were in the main hall loading and hitching their wagon. Although they’d been sharing Castle Gebal for several days, Soren hadn’t bothered to learn their names until this morning. He made a mental note of each of them now: Muston was the armorer, and he was currently tending the horses’ shoes. Jorge and Daniel were twin brothers—a blonde and a brunette. One was the company’s evaluator and buyer, the other a weapons forger. (Already he’d forgotten which was which.) The pair were currently loading boxes into the wagon while arguing about the rules of some sort of boardgame. The leader and vendor, Aimee, was currently chatting with Ilyana, and neither seemed at all involved in the preparations. Soren approached them.

“Ah, you’re the mercenary boy who wanted to see our merchandise, is that right?” Aimee said by way of greeting.

“Yes. I trust you keep a copy of the supply list for your wagon?”

“ _Tch tch_ , business, business,” Aimee giggled to Ilyana. “Are you sure you want to join these mercenaries? They’re so serious!”

Ilyana just shrugged sheepishly

“Join?” Soren repeated.

“Why, yes! Your handsome young commander offered her a contract to fight beside you as long as our two merry bands travel together. She went and said yes without even asking me first!” The pink-robed woman donned a fake pout. “Then again, I can’t really blame her. I would have joined myself if he’d asked. Who can say no to those big blue eyes?” Now she sighed and faked a swoon.

Ilyana smiled. “It’s not like that, Aimee. I told you, if there is a Princess Crimea, I want to help her fight against Daein. Especially after what they did to us.”

Now Aimee shook her head dramatically, as if she was about to have a fit. “Of course, of course! Those villainous foes, ruining my business and taking my sweet Ilyana from me.” She smiled and pinched the girl’s cheek.

Ilyana pushed Aimee’s hand away but grinned happily. Soren had had about as much as he could take. He cleared his throat impatiently. “The supply list,” he repeated.

“Right, right.” Aimee waved her hand. She rummaged among the bags waiting to be loaded and soon extracted a roll of papers. “Here it is then. It’s a recent copy so you’re free to keep it.”

Soren accepted the list brusquely and took his leave of the women. He then set about exploring the bags and boxes littering the floor to confirm its accuracy and see the items himself.

When this task was concluded, he sought out Titania and found her brooding in her room, packing slowly. He gave her the merchants’ supply list, and told her what essentials he intended to purchase.

Titania accepted the papers and Soren’s report numbly. “Begnion coffee,” she observed, skimming the list. “That would be nice treat for the company…”

“We cannot afford to splurge,” he reminded her.

Titania shrugged, and he left without another word.

Soren did a round of the mercenaries’ rooms to make sure they were all packing, but wherever he went, he found his comrades moving at a snail’s pace. Irritated and ready to be gone, Soren found Rhys and procured the company’s funds from the sickly healer.

After buying the necessary supplies and submitting orders for everyone’s weapons and armor to be tuned up, Soren decided to give Ike a follow-up report. He found him outside the walls, watching a bonfire beyond the outworks. Luckily the wind wasn’t blowing in this direction, and Soren couldn’t smell the Daein corpses burning.

“Oh, hey.” Ike rubbed his eyes, but they became no less hollow. Soren wondered if he’d helped stack the bodies. “How’s the packing going?”

“Five hundred gold,” Soren replied curtly, passing him the receipt Aimee had signed.

“What?” Ike asked. He didn’t read it.

“On new weapons and armor, that’s how much we’ve already spent,” Soren explained, “Plus supplies are still running low. We need dried meat, fresh fruit…” Noticing the glazed look return to his friend’s eyes, Soren decided it was better than the hollow one. “Ike? Are you listening?”

“Huh?” He straightened and tried to look attentive, but catching Soren’s unamused expression, he smiled sheepishly. “Okay, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I would have never guessed.”

“Sorry, Soren.” He shook his head to clear it. “Look, could you run that report by me again?” He screwed up his eyes and stared at the receipt as if determined to unlock its mysteries. 

This time he looked like he really would pay attention, but Soren decided to cut him loose. “You’re tired, Ike. You need rest. Go find a cot somewhere.”

“You can tell?” Ike smiled, stifling a yawn.

“Of course. When you are not feeling well, your left eye twitches,” Soren observed.

“That’s…odd.” Ike rubbed his eyes again. “I never noticed.”

“Get some sleep. I can manage things for a few hours.” Soren checked the position of the sun. It was almost midmorning.

“Well, I am pretty beat,” Ike admitted.

“Go,” Soren ordered, suddenly realizing he’d been waiting for permission to rest. He was commander now, but that didn’t mean he suddenly knew how to live without orders. For a moment, Soren considered the stress and confusion he must be feeling.

Perhaps this showed on his face, because Ike grinned. “You know, Soren, you’re not nearly as insensitive as the others say. Deep down, you’re a big softie.”

“Excuse me?” Soren hardened his gaze.

“Oh, nothing. I’m going.” Ike raised his hands in mock appeasement and turned toward the fort

“Mmm,” Soren hummed, determined to have the last word. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

This raised a snort of laughter from Ike, but he said nothing more. For a moment, Soren felt at peace. This kind of idle banter had been a mainstay of their friendship for years, but now Crimea was at war, Greil was dead, and Soren didn’t know if moments like this would ever become normal again. When Ike was gone, Soren turned his attention to the heap of smoldering bodies. They would need more dry timber to keep it burning.

While Ike napped, he oversaw the rest of the preparations, which included finding Titania and giving her a sharp chastisement: “Get up, and do the work Greil left you.” Being scolded by Soren of all people seemed to bewilder her enough to emerge from her gloom and take the lead. She seemed like herself again—ordering the mercenaries around and whipping them into shape. This was a relief to Soren, who was terrible at giving orders.

The wagon and horses were finally moved outside, after which an excessive amount of time was spent cleaning the main hall. (Since this was a laguz castle, Soren didn’t think the beast-men would be bothered by the presence of more animal waste.) Eventually everyone was packed and ready to go. Titania woke up Ike, and they and the rest of the mercenaries went to pay a final visit to Greil’s grave.

Soren had no interest in such things and decided to wait in his room, appreciating the comfort of a bed one last time before the long road to Zarzi. There was nothing left to do or plan, and his thoughts inevitably turned to Melior. Even in that vast library, he hadn’t been able to find any evidence that he was not a Branded—nor that he was (and being in Gallia again brought that possibility painfully close to mind).

He told himself he had nothing to do with the laguz or this country, but that was a lie. Even if he wasn’t Branded, he’d always been mistaken for one. And here he was in Gallia, because this was where the naïve princess had wanted to go. She thought the beasts would be friendly because her father had once tried to befriend them. Ike and Greil were no different—a child propagating their parent’s delusions. But Soren knew better. All of the problems in his life could be traced back to the laguz. If only they’d kept to their own kind, never tried to be more than animals, never left their borders, never mingled or mated with humans—then Soren’s life might have been less miserable.

Someone knocked on the door, pushing it fully open, and Soren was jogged from his reverie. He sat up and shook his head, trying to eradicate the tormenting thoughts.

“Packing?” Ike stepped into the room and glanced at the bag at the end of the bed.

“Hmm,” he hummed noncommittally and rubbed his eyes as if he’d been sleeping. 

“What’s wrong, Soren?” Ike became suddenly concerned. “You’re ready right?”

His mind cleared, and he realized he had to act normally or risk Ike’s inquisitiveness. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Ike glanced at his rucksack again and smiled thoughtfully. “When we left the base, you only brought a few robes and musty old books. I took even less, but it looks we both travel light, huh?”

Soren stood, tightened the bag’s drawstring, and tossed it over his shoulder. “The burden of unnecessary items is something I detest.”

“Me too,” Ike agreed. “We’re alike in that, aren’t we?”

Soren didn’t think they were alike at all. Ike was full of love and trust, and people loved and trusted him in return. Soren had no idea what that felt like. Ike was strong and confident; Soren was small and circumspect. They didn’t even look anything alike, and—a thought suddenly struck him—he couldn’t even guarantee they were the same species. The idea stilled his blood and turned his palms clammy. “Hmm,” he hummed again, unable to respond.

“What is it? You’ve got that worried look again.”

“Well, um, it’s nothing. Never mind.” He searched for an excuse to get away. “Everyone’s really slow, aren’t they? Shall I go and see what’s taking them?” He tried to leave, but Ike was blocking the door.

“Soren…don’t worry about it.”

“Hm?” Soren hummed aloofly, despite the shock ricocheting inside his brain.

“Sitting in the sunlight this morning, …” Ike turned his face to the window but didn’t leave the threshold. “It helped me understand. I’m alive. I have trustworthy friends. That’s how I know I can go on. I just hope I’m not—” he shook his head “—fooling myself.”

“No, you’re not!” Soren burst, but quickly reclaimed himself. “You’re not.”

“Well then, it’s business as usual. I know we all have troubles, but let us set our shoulders straight and get on with it.” His body language changed in time with his words. He looked taller, and even a little older.

Soren nodded. “Understood.”

Ike finally moved, and they left the room together. “Thanks for all your help this morning,” he said after a while, and his voice was quieter. “I know I wasn’t all there… I’m still trying to figure out how to do this.”

“Think nothing of it,” Soren replied coolly. “I was merely doing my job.”


	21. CHAPTER 21: GALLIA

Lethe and Mordecai led the mercenaries west, saying they would travel south along the coast before cutting inland to Zarzi. It was certainly not a direct route, and Soren had a feeling they were avoiding Gallian settlements.

After two days of steady travel, they found themselves in a clifftop meadow overlooking a wide fjord. They’d finally made it to the sea. Titania walked her horse to the edge and stared at it wistfully. Ike announced that they’d be taking a short break and immediately went to speak with her. Soren crouched in the shade of the wagon and rested with the others.

Lethe and Mordecai had been scouting ahead, but they soon reappeared, perhaps having noticed their wards were no longer following. Mordecai was the first to push through the trees. “Ike,” he called.

He and Titania turned away from the water to meet with him. “What is it, Mordecai?”

“Do you tire? Should we camp here?” The tiger’s voice was heavy with concern. Lethe strutted over and sniffed disapprovingly.

Ike shook his head. “No. I think we’re all right.”

“Good.” Mordecai nodded.

“Beorc are such a weak species. A distance like this is nothing. Any laguz worth their claws could cross it in a single bound,” Lethe boasted.

“Lethe!” Mordecai warned.

She crossed her arms. “It’s the truth!”

“Persist this way, and you shame the king.” Mordecai shook his head in embarrassment. “You sound like a fool.”

Lethe hissed indignantly. “You are my subordinate! Never speak to me in such a way!”

“Wrong is wrong,” Mordecai replied. “You are a fierce warrior, Lethe, but with beorc, far too stubborn.”

She rounded on him, baring her teeth. “What did you say!”

Ike stepped in before their argument could turn into a literal cat fight. “Come on now, both of you—” he raised his palms “—Let’s calm down.”

Suddenly, each laguz tensed and turned south. They stood absolutely motionless except for their twitching ears.

“Mordecai?” Lethe breathed.

He inhaled deeply. “Wait…”

“What is it?” Ike whispered.

“That smell on the wind… It’s iron. It is the smell of weapons. The smell of beorc. Heavily armored. Well-armed,” Mordecai reported.

“Are you sure?” Ike whispered skeptically.

Lethe’s ears swiveled. “A scout has sighted us.”

The sound of hoofbeats, broken branches, and clanking armor echoed softly through the trees. Nearby, something disturbed a roost of crows, and they took to the sky with a cadence of protest.

“Everyone, stay here and be ready to move!” Ike addressed the travelers. “Lethe, Mordecai, Titania, Soren, we’re getting a closer look.”

The laguz led them into a dense grove where they could better see their adversaries while remaining hidden.

“Black armor,” Soren noted. “They’re Daein alright.”

Ike shook his head in disbelief. “You’re saying some of the pursuit force is still around?”

“Daein worms…” Lethe seethed, “They strut about the Gallian forests as though they owned them. I won’t stand for it!”

Mordecai growled. “The castle to the south. Many beorc inside. They carry iron weapons. I can smell them.”

“Not good.” Ike cursed. “Titania, gather everyone together!”

“Understood.” She saluted before creeping back the way they’d come.

“What now?” Lethe asked coolly.

Ike cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“If you hope to crush the worms, you’d do well to capture the ruins in the south. Since you probably want to flee, there _is_ an escape route…” For once she didn’t sound condescending, though it was obvious which plan she preferred.

“We’re going to fight,” he declared resolutely.

Lethe was clearly surprised. “Oh?”

“There are times when running has its advantages, but I don’t think we’ll lose here,” Ike explained. He glanced at Soren who nodded in agreement. Fighting was the right plan now.

“I see,” Lethe muttered with something close to respect.

“I will also fight,” Mordecai volunteered.

“Good. We could use the help.” Ike grinned.

They retreated slightly, and soon met up with Titania, who had the rest of the mercenaries and merchants in tow. “Ike, everyone’s here.”

“We’re going to fight,” he announced in a loud whisper. “Aimee, take your men there—” he pointed to a large, leafy copse to the north where they’d be better able to hide the wagon. “And take care of Mist and Rolf.”

“Oh, you give orders with such confidence!” Aimee crooned.

“Of course we’ll watch out for your sister,” Muston answered in her stead. 

“We’re counting on you. Be careful!” Jorge waved.

The merchants retreated to where Mist was wringing her hands and Rolf chewing his lip. Jorge and Daniel took their hands, tugging them away.

Ike sidled to the front (with Soren fast at his side). “Everyone who can fight, grab your weapons! Greil Mercenaries—” he drew his sword “—move out!”

He was about to lead the charge when Mist darted through the brush and seized his arm. “Ike!” she gasped.

“Mist! You and Rolf clear out of here!” he hissed. “Stay back, no matter what!”

“No, Ike. We’re going to fight with you—both of us.”

Everyone groaned and lowered their weapons. The middle of enemy territory was no place for a sibling chat, and this one promised to be a doozy.

Ike argued in harsh whispers: “What? No. That’s not going to happen. Be serious Mist. The two of you can’t even wield weapons.”

“I’ve got this!” Mist proffered the Heal staff she’d been using as a walking stick these past few days. “I made Rhys teach me how to use it. I can heal injuries! I mean, just little ones, but still…”

“Little ones? No. There’s no way I’m letting you on the battlefield.”

Two bodies suddenly broke through the underbrush. Everyone raised their weapons again but then realized they weren’t under attack. It was just Rolf—with Boyd chasing close after. “Rolf! Stop being such a brat, you little twerp!” he whispered angrily.

“ _Shhh!_ ” Titania warned. Rolf slid under her horse to escape.

“I’m going to fight, too! I’m good with a bow!” Rolf declared. He had a sturdy little bow and a quiver of arrows clutched to his chest. Soren wondered where they’d come from and how the twelve-year-old had managed to hide them this whole time.

“Really?” Boyd scoffed. “That’s news to me. Is that the best lie you can come up with?”

“It’s no lie,” Rolf assured.

“That’s right!” Mist butted in, “He’s not lying,”

“Of course he is!”

Titania hushed them again.

Ike sighed. “What are you talking about, Mist?”

“He’s always practicing,” she explained, “and he’s really good. Aren’t you, Rolf?”

“I sure am!” he replied confidently. 

“And when did you learn to use a bow?” Ike pushed.

“Well, let’s see, Um…I guess I just…sorta—” Rolf shrugged “—picked it up naturally?” He wasn’t convincing anyone, but Soren didn’t care where or when he’d learned it. Neither did it matter how old he was; if he could fight, they should let him fight. But it was Ike’s decision.

“Stop lying, you booger-eating brat!” Boyd whisper-yelled. “You can’t just pick up a weapon and start firing away! Someone has to teach you the basics!”

“Well, maybe I’m just a prodigy, ‘cause I learned it all by myself!”

“You little,” Boyd growled. (It was probably good Titania’s horse still separated them.)

Mist threw her fists on her hips. “You don’t know anything, Boyd!”

“That’s right!” Rolf agreed.

“This is ridiculous!” he cried out, exasperated.

Titania hushed them in frustration. It was almost unbelievable enemy troops hadn’t found them yet. Soren had to assume it was because the forces had spread out and were slowly closing in. Daein had surely expected them to try to escape.

“Enough,” Ike declared with finality, “You two go back.”

“No! We don’t want to. All Rolf and I do is sit and wait and worry about all of you. We’re tired of waiting! We want to fight by your side!”

“Is that so?” Ike seemed taken aback.

Boyd was also more subdued. “How about it, Rolf? Is that how you feel, too?”

“Uh-huh. No doubt.” He came out from behind Titania. “We’d rather be with you.”

Boyd sighed and put his arm around his brother. Oscar smiled at the two of them. “What now, Boss?” Boyd asked.

“We take them with us,” Ike conceded. “We’re too pressed for time to sit around here bickering. And at least if they’re nearby, they’ll be easier to protect.”

“Are you serious?” Mist blanched as if she hadn’t expected to win.

“Yes!” Rolf cheered. “You won’t regret this, Ike! I promise!”

Boyd jostled him a bit. “I hope not.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time and crush these Daein dogs!” Ike declared. “Let’s go!” Nobody interrupted this time, and the mercenaries broke cover.

A minute later they encountered a small squad closing in on their location. These soldiers mocked them for being ‘noisy little children’ and laughed as they lunged between the trees.

“Boo!” a swordswoman said, jumping out at Rolf only to be impaled by Oscar.

“I can help you grow up real fast, little lady,” crooned a spearman, cutting off Mist’s escape route instead of stabbing her. It was his mistake, and she wacked him in the nose with her staff. Ike cut off his head a moment later.

“You must be the mother hen, eh red?” another soldier teased Titania, dancing around her mount. “This your brood?”

Unable to reach him, she flung her entire poleax—cleaving him in two and pinning him to a tree. “Yes, it is,” she answered proudly.

Boyd wrenched the weapon out of the trunk and handed it to her. “Gee thanks, mom.”

Titania glared at him and lashed out. Boyd ducked in time for her to crush the helm of an axman behind him.

“Do you beorc always talk so much when you fight?” hissed Lethe. She’d transformed into a large orange cat, blood and already caked her paws and muzzle.

“Let’s get out of these trees!” Ike ordered instead of answering. “Fan out!”

The squad had been easily dispatched, so the mercenaries obeyed his instruction. The fighting was relatively easy until the soldiers who’d spread out to bar their escape returned to support their comrades. Some were quite skilled, and Soren wondered if they could be survivors from Gebal or even the battle in the ruins. They seemed to understand the mercenaries’ fighting styles and anticipated their every move.

That being said, the Greil Mercenaries were adaptable, and Ike was now in charge now. He had two paladins, two swordsmen, two mages, two healers, an axman, and an amateur archer at his disposal—not to mention two beasts hungry for blood. He didn’t shy away from giving orders and showed he could deploy them creatively.

When they were forced to fight in the trees, he counted on Lethe and Mordecai’s ears for enemy numbers and positions and he got Rolf into the canopy, where he was as nimble as a squirrel and better protected. When they fought in the open, he urged the company to spread out and then relied on Titania and Oscar’s mobility to keep any one person from becoming overwhelmed. As an added measure, he ordered Mist and Rhys to ride with them, and the pairs healed and protected their injured comrades in tandem.

As for the laguz, Ike let Lethe have free reign of the battlefield. But when it became clear Mordecai’s tough hide was a natural shield, he commanded that he fall back and defend Ilyana and Soren. The massive blue tiger readily agreed, apparently having no qualms about jumping in front of blades and arrows to protect a couple humans. Soren had to admit the laguz were valuable assets, but he was still uncomfortable fighting beside them. More than once he had to reject his instinct to hit Mordecai instead of the beorc soldiers.

The battle was well in hand, as Soren had predicted. The battalion of eighty soldiers had dwindled to forty, and the morale was high among the mercenaries. But now that things started to unravel.

It began with the laguz dwellings at the base of the fjord. Unfortunately, the Daeins discovered them first and set fire to the entire beach. “If you love subhumans so much, why don’t you go die with them?” sneered one of the archers who’d just released the flaming arrows.

The laguz who lived below the cliffs cowered, hid, or ran for their lives instead of transforming and fighting back. Some tried to save their trapped comrades, but that was all. This display of cowardice surprised Soren, who’d assumed all laguz were hotblooded warriors.

As expected given his soft heart, Ike fell for the trap. He divided their strength, sending Soren, Mordecai, Mia, and Mist to help the Gallians. Rushing headlong down the steep trail was already dangerous, but it was made worse by the ten tenacious soldiers pursuing them.

When they finally reached the beach, the shifty volcanic sand sapped his energy and slowed his footwork, but the terrain was worse for the soldiers, who wore heavy armor on their shoulders, hips, and shins. This finally gave Soren an advantage, and he conjured relentlessly. The fjord was a natural wind tunnel, and the spirits of air felt strong here.

His spells, although mostly invisible, left swirls and streaks where the wind disturbed the sand, and the Daeins clearly tried to use these to predict and avoid the razor-edged gusts. But they couldn’t move as quickly as they had above, and there was no longer any trees or rocks to dive behind. To slip even a little bit, to miscalculate the propulsion of a step—these were fatal mistakes. 

When the pursuit was dead, Mordecai lifted burning beams and Mist healed the raw flesh and broken bones of any laguz who didn’t run away at the sight of them. Mia tossed buckets of seawater, but the thatched houses were fully ablaze now. Soren honestly didn’t care if the buildings burned. But Ike had sent given him a job to do, so he would do it.

Catching his breath, the next spells he formed were large and suffocating. He forced the winds to blow inward from all directions, compressing the fire. When this didn’t work (and sapped so much energy it made him dizzy), he tried a new tactic. He conjured the fastest gust of wind he could create, hoping it might be enough to snuff out the flames by depriving them of oxygen. But this too was a failure. Flipping through his small collection of fire spells, he found some for dousing. But he could only extinguish small sections with each incantation, and he didn’t have the time nor the strength to combat an entire burning structure. Then, with one final idea in mind, he aimed a wind spell at the ground. The blast blew sand high into the air, pelting the house and Mordecai, who shook his coat before clamping his jaws around the arm of an unconscious laguz girl and pulling her out. The sand attack had been the most successful thus far, but the house was still burning, and a moment later, it collapsed.

“My nose and eyes are clouded,” Mordecai said, raising his shaggy head to survey the burning village. “But I believe all were saved.”

“Mia, you can stop!” Mist called, coughing.

She dropped her bucket and sighed. “I guess there’s nothing else we can do, huh?”

“You made strong effort.” Mordecai nodded to her and Soren in turn. “Thank you.”

Soren didn’t want or need his praise. “Let’s get back to the others,” he said, raising his eyes to the cliff, but there was no indication of how the others were faring.

“Wait, what’s that?” Mist said suddenly, pointing in the opposite direction. Soren turned reluctantly and saw the prow and sails of a ship entering the fjord.

“A boat? Maybe they saw the smoke…” Mia shook her head.

The ship bore neither Crimean, Daein, nor Begnion flags, but a few moments later, they hoisted what was little more than a rag bearing a sorry-looking pirate emblem. Mordecai growled under his breath: “Vultures.”

“Let’s go back and help the others,” Soren said again, but this proposal was immediately rejected.

“If they land, they might go after the people we just saved!” Mia countered.

“People?” Soren repeated doubtfully.

“Mia’s right, we have to help!” Mist seconded.

“You are brave, beorc children.” Mordecai closed his feline eyes. “Thank you.”

Soren gave up and moved down the beach. “Fine.”

The waters were gentle enough that the pirates could draw in close, drop their ladders, and slosh onto shore. But Soren and the others were ready and waiting for them.

“Go back!” Mordecai roared, baring his saber teeth.

But the pirates merely drew their weapons. “Look,” one laughed, “a big kitty and a couple kiddos.”

“That pretty one’s got a sword. No tail either,” noted one, circling his axe while he assessed Mia. “We are in Gallia, right?”

“Got some fun spoils today,” agreed another, who seemed to have eyes only for Mist.

A moment later they reached them, and Soren released the spell he had prepared. The pirates fought with a style and a ferocity that was far different than the Daein soldiers he’d become accustomed to. Soren had to keep his wits about him just to stay alive. As he dodged and released spells, Soren wondered how this simple battle could have gone so wrong.

Mordecai slaughtered many of the pirates himself, and Soren and Mia managed to mop up a good number of their own. Eventually the survivors realized their raid wasn’t worth the mortal cost and retreated to their ship. When it was finally sailing away again, Soren turned his attention back to cliffs. Ignoring the pain radiating from his injuries (which included a sprained ankle), he started walking.

Limping up the rocky trail was a frustrating ordeal, but Soren just focused on the sounds of fighting and hoped their party hadn’t been away too long. Mordecai slipped to the front and led them to the old fort, where the battle was still ongoing.

Soren followed the sound of Ike’s voice and was flooded with relief when he saw that his young commander was still on his feet. He smiled when he saw them and jogged over despite a limp of his own. He hugged Mist and grinned despite the long cut on his cheek and jaw that made the expression seem painful. “All set down there?” he asked, looking up at the others.

“Some unexpected trouble showed up, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Mia answered proudly.

“You’ll have to tell me about it later,” Ike laughed.

“How does the battle fare here?” Soren asked, surveying the surviving Daeins and unflagging mercenaries.

“We had an unexpected visitor too,” Ike answered, gesturing to where (much to Soren’s surprise) a pegasus knight dropped out of the sky, banking around the fort, and easily skewered two soldiers who hadn’t seen her coming. “But she’s been the opposite of trouble,” he finished with a wave.

The pegasus rider waved back and flew overhead. A young woman with short pink hair, she appeared to be wearing Begnion-style cavalry armor, but it didn’t bear the insignia of the Begnion Imperial Army or the Empress’s Holy Guard. Neither did it have the distinguishing Begnion colors. In fact, it was bright pink. Soren might have thought she was a Royal Knight if her armor had been cut in the Crimean style. “Who is she?” Soren finally asked, because he hadn’t a clue.

“Her name’s Marcia, and we’ve actually met once before—a few months ago in Port Telma,” Ike explained. “It was one of my first missions, and she helped us back then too.”

Soren shook his head. “I am sure I’ll hear the full story later. If you trust her that’s all I need to know.”

“I trust her.”

“Then there is a battle that requires our attention.”

“Mordecai,” Ike ordered in response, “go support Lethe at the front!” The tiger rumbled happily and trotted away. He was heading for the fort’s front gate, where the remaining soldiers were using the ruins to make their last stand. Soren made to follow him, but Ike grabbed his arm. “Have Rhys see to that ankle first,” he said sternly. He then whistled and waved to get the healer’s attention.

Soren was surprised he’d noticed the injury, but he wasn’t about to argue. Once Rhys was jogging over, Ike squeezed Soren’s arm in farewell, grabbed his sister’s hand, and gestured for Mia to join them. The trio practically skipped off to join the battle.

Soren sat against a nearby rock, taking a look at the ankle which was quite swollen now and even more painful. Not for the first time, he cursed the pirate who’d flung an axe at it. Then again, Mia had cut off the pirate’s hand, causing the weapon to go flying, so perhaps she was the one deserving of his ire.

Wondering what was taking Rhys so long, Soren looked up and saw he’d been waylaid by Boyd. The burly sixteen-year-old seemed to be bullying the smaller man into healing a gash in his upper arm. His good arm was gripping Rhys’s shoulder, as if he could will him to work faster. Meanwhile his gaze was on the battle, and he was clearly itching to get back to it.

When the job was done, he slapped Rhys on the back and ran off. Rhys shook his head and crossed the distance to Soren. He looked exhausted.

“Your ankle?” he asked by way of greeting and knelt for a closer look. “Let’s see…”

Unlike Boyd, Soren felt no desire to charge into battle and win another moment of glory before the Daeins were defeated. He could see from here that Ike and the others were alive and fighting well. That was enough.

“They’re not surrendering,” Rhys noted when he was finished.

Soren tested his weight and found he could walk normally. “I imagine they’re terrified they’ll become prisoners of Gallia,” he answered. “The fjord cuts off their escape north, so they can’t flee either.”

Although Rhys was not Soren’s favorite company, they walked to the ruins together. They watched Mordecai crush the commander’s head in his jaws, and Rhys winced visibly. “For Daein!” the remaining soldiers cried in unison, before being cut down one by one. By the time Soren and Rhys arrived, the battle was over.

In case there were more soldiers hidden inside, Soren made himself useful by taking a look. The front doors were crooked on their hinges, and he didn’t have to explore far to see that the interior had almost completely caved in and most of the back wall had crumbled down the slope into the fjord. Exiting again, he shook his head at the laguz who’d neglected the fort to this degree. If Daein chose to invade, Gallia would have few defensive structures around which to make their stand.

Contemplating the possibility that guerilla warfare might the laguz’s forte (and then wondering why he even cared), Soren rejoined the others. Most of the mercenaries were lounging in front of the ruins, sitting on pieces of stone jutting out of the grass, chatting, and taking in the view. The merchants were fetched, and they brought with them two large barrels of fresh water. Since it was a hot, humid day, the mercenaries guzzled all they could.

The laguz civilians returned to root around the embers of their lost homes, and Lethe and Mordecai met with them. These Gallians refused to associate with any of the beorc, but they did consent to helping drag the Daein and pirate corpses onto pyres and into ditches.

While this was being done, Mist and Rolf ran down to the beach, where they celebrated their first battle by splashing in the seawater like children. Soren wondered how they could be so relaxed after what they’d witnessed. Mia and Oscar soon joined them, stripping down to their underclothes and swimming in the cool water. If he didn’t know any better, Soren might have mistaken the inlet for one of Crimea’s vacation beaches.

Once all the bodies were buried or burned, Ike introduced the rest of the mercenaries to the pegasus knight Marcia. Apparently she’d been harassing pirates up and down the Crimean coast for months. She explained that she was looking for her brother, who may have been pressganged into service by a pirate crew. She seemed both disappointed and relieved to hear that no one of his description had been seen on the beach.

Then, quite spontaneously, Ike offered that she join them, citing the fact that it would be dangerous to return to Crimea with Daein soldiers roaming the countryside. He told her how they’d been attacked by a squadron just for carrying weapons on the road and then how they’d miraculously found Princess Elincia.

Marcia listened to Ike’s story with rapt interest and, when all was told, eagerly accepted the offer. She hoped to cross paths with her brother by travelling with them and expressed interest in meeting the secret princess of Crimea, even though she was Begnion-born.

Despite the fact that Ike had met Marcia previously and trusted her, Soren wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t a spy or assassin for Daein. If the story about her missing brother was even half-true, that could make her an easy target for coercion. Soren decided to bring it up with Ike and Titania later, but for now he would keep his eye on the newcomer.

He could not watch her now, however, because he was supposed to be listening to Ike and Titania confab with the laguz warriors. “We defeated their commander, but we still don’t know what they were after,” Ike was saying.

Titania shook her head. “It seems unlikely that they were merely pursuing Princess Elincia. I wonder if Daein is planning to invade Gallia. Perhaps Crimea was only a stone on which to wet their blades.”

Soren had hypothesized the same possibility not long ago. War could overtake half of Tellius, but for now, figuring out King Ashnard’s objective was a low priority. “No matter the motive, the fact remains that Daein crossed the border. Under such circumstances, hostilities between Daein and Gallia could break out at any time,” he warned.

“So, it’s war,” Ike sighed. “Again.”

“If war erupts between the beorc and laguz, it’s only a matter of time before other nations become involved,” Titania noted sadly. “Could Daein truly mean to set the land aflame in a blaze of war? If that happens, many of our citizens will be sacrificed on the altar of ambition.”

Poetics aside, what Titania said was true. “We, too, need to choose which way to move,” Soren began, “whose side to take…”

“Whose side?” Titania crossed her arms. “We shall never support Daein! Unthinkable!”

“Captain Titania,” Soren tried to be somewhat polite in his reasoning, “We are human. Would you truly have us side with sub- with _laguz_ against other humans? _That_ is unthinkable.” He glanced at the laguz, expecting an outburst, but they just scowled and watched.

“Beorc and laguz,” Ike muttered, deep in thought.

Finally Lethe spoke up, taking a firm step forward. “Are you going to sit here and argue about a war that hasn’t started?” she growled, “You beorc are all so timid! It’s pathetic.”

“Lethe, you must not say such things,” Mordecai warned, gently grasping her arm.

“Mordecai? Lethe?” Ike turned to them. “What do you think? Will it come to war?”

“Our claws are sharp.” Lethe brushed off Mordecai’s hand. “If Daein invades Gallia, we are ready for battle. If our King wills it, war will come.”

 _Of course the beasts have no plan,_ Soren thought, but he knew better than to voice his criticism aloud, lest he start another fight.

“I like it not…” Mordecai rumbled. “War brings pain. Sorrow.” It wasn’t a response Soren expected of a laguz.

Ike nodded. “This sure is troubling.”

“Enough,” Lethe hissed. “We have lost much time. Let us make for the palace. We must reach tonight’s camp before the sun sets.”

“Is the palace still far?” Ike asked curiously.

“On your skinny beorc legs, it is very far,” Lethe sighed, “But we will do as we can.”


	22. CHAPTER 22: ALLIES

A party of twelve had set out from the mercenary base, and although they no longer had Greil, Shinon, Gatrie, or the princess with them, their numbers had already swelled to seventeen (if one generously included the merchants and their laguz guides). Soren wondered if this had something to do with the way people naturally gravitated toward Ike. They trusted him, enjoyed talking to him, and even wanted him to lead despite his age and inexperience. In return, Ike listened to them, learned about their lives, and asked about the things they cared about. He made them feel safe, brave, and confident; he made them feel important.

Because of this, he was always surrounded by people as they marched to Zarzi, and Soren always seemed to be watching from afar. Ike was coming into his own as a commander. He embodied the best parts of both Greil and Elena, and Soren was oddly proud of him. As he followed Ike through the ancient forests, expansive valleys, and rolling mountains of Gallia, he realized he would probably follow him anywhere.

After three weeks, Castle Gallia finally appeared before them—or rather, above them. They exited a ravine into a section of forest where the trees were thinner and the ground well-worn. Above the trees, they could see the palace built into the side of a mountain: a sprawling chain of tall, stone walls. The castle was tier-shaped and resembled the cliffs around it, and as immense as it was, it was still far away.

Below the fortress was the capital city of Zarzi, which looked more like a human city than any of the laguz settlements Soren had seen so far. However, they weren’t allowed a closer look (not that Soren wanted one). Lethe and Mordecai led them around the city, approaching the castle via a mountain pass. Eventually, they reached the grand front doors, which were promptly pulled open by a pair of matching silver-haired tigers in their unshifted forms.

Soren had barely taken a step inside before Princess Elincia was there, racing to Ike like a little girl and clasping his hands in her own. She gushed about how glad she was to see them again and only tempered herself when expressing condolences for the loss of Greil. The pair chatted while the rest of the merchants and mercenaries wandered around the welcome hall.

It appeared the castle’s interior shared the same aesthetic as the exterior: simple, sturdy, enormous, and yet undeniably elegant. The perfectly parallel beams and curved ribs of the rafters each appeared to be an entire tree (and considering the size of the trees that grew in the Gallian forest, that was saying something). The walls were laid with rectangular stones larger than a man, and when Soren peered closer, he saw that they were also carved with painstaking designs that encircled the room.

While he was appreciating the architecture, Lethe and Mordecai conversed with the guards, and soon another Gallian soldier trotted into the room, announcing, “The king has arrived!” Another two guards opened the doors wider, and in walked the largest man Soren had ever seen.

The King of the Beasts resembled his castle in the sense that everything about him was big, from his nose down to each of the knuckles on each of his fingers. He was tall. His strides were long. He wore a sweeping blue and gold cloak with a huge white ruff at the collar. His beard and hair were blood red and grew out like a lion’s mane—which of course, it was. He was a lion, the strongest of all the beast laguz.

Lethe and Mordecai bowed low.

“Um…” Ike seemed taken off guard. “Hey there.”

Of all the words to greet a king, those wouldn’t have been Soren’s choice, but he was just glad he didn’t have to say anything at all.

“Thank you for coming to Gallia Palace. I am Caineghis, ruler of the Kingdom of Gallia,” the red lion boomed, proving his voice matched the rest of him. However, his words were refined and evenly spoken. He sounded like the highest of nobility, not a simple beast-man.

“These are the Greil Mercenaries,” Ike introduced the company with a wave of his arm. “I am Ike, their commander.”

“You have been raised well, young pup, I almost didn’t recognize you.” Caineghis’s eyes softened as she smiled down at Ike, who was clearly taken aback.

“What?”

Everyone looked confused except for Titania, who was smiling warmly. “When last you were here,” she explained, “you were still a small child.”

Soren allowed his confusion to fade. He realized he should not have been surprised that Greil had known the Beast King nor that the king would therefore know Ike.

“Is that you, Titania?” the king laughed, “It’s good to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.” Titania bowed.

“The two of you are friends?” Ike was clearly baffled. “How? How does the king know me?”

“I have something I must tell you about your father, Greil.” Caineghis rubbed his chin in thought and surveyed the faces of the others in the room. “Lethe, Mordecai, leave us now. Escort our guests to their prepared rooms, so they may have a place to rest and heal their wounds.” He obviously wanted to talk with Ike alone.

“At once, my Lord!” Lethe saluted.

“Would it be best if I were to leave as well?” Elincia inquired.

“No, Princess, I would have you stay. And this one will also stay,” Caineghis declared. He gestured to a figure Soren was surprised he hadn’t noticed before. He must have come in behind the king and now stood as still as a statue, not making a sound. His ability to go unnoticed was remarkable considering he was almost as big as Caineghis—obviously another lion laguz. He had dark skin and black hair and was dressed in a uniform of black and dark purple. “This is Giffca, my shadow,” Caineghis explained, giving the other lion a small smile when their eyes met. “Pay him no more heed than you would the air.”

“Understood,” Ike said, “I would have Titania and Soren stay with me as well.”

Soren tore his eyes away from the king’s bodyguard. “Me?” he blurted in surprise. He had been expecting to leave with the others. But in a flash he caught Ike’s eye and understood—he was nervous, even if he didn’t dare show it to the king. 

“So be it,” Caineghis agreed. His eyes lingered on Soren a moment, and he resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze.

Lethe and Mordecai led the rest of the mercenaries and merchants through the main doors, while Caineghis and Giffca led Ike, Elincia, Titania, and Soren through a side door into a slightly smaller, cozier room with upholstered settees and cascades of sunlight coming through the tall windows.

Everyone took a seat except for Giffca who remained standing slightly behind Caineghis’s chair. Servants brought pitchers of water, glasses, and even little snacks that looked like thin strips of grilled meat wound around small sticks. But no one touched them, and no one spoke until the servants were gone.

“Now then, where to begin?” the king finally said. “Titania? How much did Greil tell his son?”

“Ike was raised with no knowledge of Gallia whatsoever, nor does he recall ever having been here,” she reported pleasantly.

“Is that so? Then it is best for me to tell him all that I know.” He shook his head in discouragement. “Although that is not much.”

“That’s all right,” Ike assured eagerly, “Whatever you can tell me would be much appreciated. I want to know more about my father.”

“Hmm,” Caineghis seemed to assess Ike. “You have good eyes. Honest and brave. I see your father in them. Some years ago, Greil, your father, worked as a mercenary for Gallia.” That was a piece of the puzzle Soren had not known, but it made sense. It explained why Greil and his family had lived in this country in the first place. “We forged a strong bond, he and I,” the king continued. “To speak truly, I still do not trust beorc. But your father was different. Princess Elincia’s father, King Ramon, and his brother, Lord Renning, are also of a different kind. All are—or were—exceptional men. Men in whom one could put his trust.”

Titania made a face, as if injured.

“Oh ho!” the King laughed. “Titania! You are an exception as well! Among beorc women, you are unique.”

Titania chuckled in return, clearly unoffended. “You are most gracious, Your Majesty.”

“My father was a mercenary for Gallia?” Ike repeated.

“Correct. And you and your sister, you were both born here in Gallia,” Caineghis explained, “You stayed only for a short time, but part of your childhood was spent within these borders,”

“Mist and I grew up here? Really?” Ike shook his head. “I don’t remember any of this at all.” He looked confused, as if searching for something he’d misplaced just a moment ago.

Ike had repressed his own memories; that had been the choice of his young, grief-stricken mind. But looking at him now, Soren felt somewhat guilty. Taking Greil’s request to heart, Soren never encouraged Ike to remember. No one had. Greil had never spoken of Elena, and Titania never mentioned her, although Soren inferred their paths had crossed. Mist hummed her songs but rarely reminisced. None of the mercenaries asked Ike about his mother or his childhood. But here was a laguz king, brazenly stirring parts of Ike’s mind that everyone else had agreed to leave untouched. 

“I feel your parents were carrying a dark secret,” Caineghis continued. “Someone was hunting them, I’m sure of it. Ten or so years ago, when your mother was still alive, your father chose to leave Gallia. Before he left, I went to him and asked him to share his tale. I asked him, ‘Why are you being chased? Is there anything I can do to help?’ But I was unable to loosen his tongue. When I heard he’d returned to Gallia, and I thought I had another chance to hear his tale. But his fate was black indeed. If I had been faster, if I’d hastened my steps, perhaps things would be different.” He shook his mane regretfully.

“Wait! Now I understand. The voice I heard—” Ike stared at the king “—that was you, wasn’t it?” (Soren recalled the roaring he’d heard the night of Greil’s death, but he would hardly call that a ‘voice’.)

Caineghis sighed. “His wound was fatal. I could do nothing. I thought it best not to interfere in his final moments, so I remained hidden. Tell me, Ike…at his last, did he confess anything to you? The identity of the Black Knight, did he reveal it?”

“The Black Knight? No. I don’t know who he was. My father entrusted me with his command, told me to trust the King of Gallia—you—and to live peacefully in Gallia. He said to forget everything else.” Ike frowned as if disappointed.

Soren frowned too. Until now, Ike had refused to tell anyone Greil’s final words. Titania didn’t look happy either. Perhaps she felt slighted that he’d refused to tell her what he now shared freely with Caineghis. 

“Is that so?” the king nodded. “Well then, let me do as I can. If any of your mercenaries desire to live here, I will arrange it. I will vouchsafe them homes and land.”

“Your kindness is truly appreciated,” Ike replied politely, “But, speaking for myself, I couldn’t live here in peace. Not now. I will avenge my father. I cannot so quickly forget the past…” Ike’s expression darkened. “Or the Black Knight.”

“But, Ike! That’s not-” Titania began.

“I know. I’m not—” Ike shrugged “—I’m not strong enough. An opponent who could easily defeat my father is well beyond my reach. But that’s why I’ve devoted myself to growing stronger. I will lead my father’s mercenaries for the day when my chance for revenge arrives.”

“A prudent course of action,” Caineghis observed, “You look as one who would be more impulsive, but you are Greil’s son after all.”

Titania barked in surprise. “You’ve matured, Ike. It seems like yesterday that you were merely a child.”

“ _Titania_ ,” Ike groaned in embarrassment.

“And now, I would ask a boon of you.” The king drew his massive palms together. “The strength of your mercenary band, Ike, would you lend it to Princess Elincia?”

“Are you serious?” Ike was obviously surprised, but Soren had suspected that this might happen. Elincia needed beorc vassals to serve her and be served by her. Otherwise she was no Princess Crimea at all.

“King Caineghis!” Elincia exclaimed, having remained silent this entire time. Apparently she hadn’t seen this coming either.

The king raised his hands to calm her. “Gallia and Crimea are allied nations—that cannot be denied. However, this alliance in reality binds only the royal families. It is not respected by our citizenry.”

Titania nodded solemnly. “The people of Gallia are seldom seen in Crimea, aren’t they? Even though our nations are friends, the people of Crimea have little real understanding of the laguz. Many of our people still use that undignified name—‘subhuman’—when they speak of laguz kind.”

Elincia wiped her eyes. “My father’s heart was filled with shame and sorrow over what you describe. More than any ruler in our history, he wanted to deepen relations between our peoples, and then…”

Caineghis nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps that is why Daein targeted him. Their hatred of the laguz is well known.”

“Could it be?” Ike murmured.

“In my heart of hearts, I would like to take guardianship of Princess Elincia and assist in the rebuilding of Crimea. However, anti-beorc sentiment is running high here in Gallia. If we were to offer safe harbor to Elincia, I feel many of our elder statesmen would protest.” Caineghis shook his head. “They would say that we are giving Daein an ideal excuse to attack.” Soren noted the king’s words with interest. Apparently, politics and prejudices were something all nations had in common.

“Which means Gallia can’t offer Princess Elincia any relief at all, is that it?” Ike asked.

“Unfortunately, it is true,” the king confirmed.

My lord Ike, King Caineghis has advised me to turn to the Begnion Theocracy for aid in Crimean’s restoration. He says I should make of Begnion a formal request and gain the support of their shields,” Elincia explained tentatively.

At her words, Soren’s mind burst with an idea, and he had to stop himself from standing in excitement. Begnion had something he wanted, although he’d never imagined himself actually being able to travel there. The capital, Sienne, contained archives far superior to even Melior’s Royal Library. If there was any place with the resources to prove once and for all that he wasn’t a Branded, it was that city.

“Passage to Begnion will require several months at sea. An escort will be necessary,” Titania proposed.

“As you know, we lack the numbers to serve as a complete mercenary army. So if the Princess were willing to hire us as an escort, it would be an offer beyond our expectations,” Ike said formally, and Elincia beamed back at him. He stared into her eyes, and neither blinked until Ike broke the trance: “Titania, Soren!” he said, standing and gesturing for them to join him a short distance from the royals. “I think we should accept the king’s offer,” he whispered, and despite the laguz’s heightened hearing, Caineghis and Giffca pretended not to eavesdrop. “What do you say?”

“It’s what you want, right, Commander? Well, then, it’s our job to follow you,” Titania answered dutifully.

Soren wanted to agree right away, but he didn’t want Ike to question why he was so eager. “However you wish to proceed is fine,” he said carefully. “I will do all in my power to ensure that our road leads to success.” _And to Begnion_ , he added mentally.

“Understood.” Ike bobbed his head. It was obviously the answer he’d wanted. Rejoining the king and princess, he announced: “As of now, the Greil Mercenaries shall assume the honor of serving as escort to the Princess of Crimea. Princess Elincia, our journey together will undoubtedly be a long one. May we serve you well.”

“Oh, thank you very much!” Elincia leapt from her seat and grasped his hands. “I only pray that I, in turn, may be worthy of your service!”

That evening, Soren and Titania put their heads together and ultimately decided there was no choice but to reach Begnion by sea, just as she’d predicted. The Erzt mountain range between Gallia and Begnion was virtually impassable, and the one safe path was guarded by a fortress city. According to Caineghis’s recent intelligence, an unknown conflict was ongoing in that region and the pass wasn’t safe. Heading south and cutting through Goldoa was also out of the question. The dragons’ borders were closed with no exceptions. As for going north, the old pass between Crimea and Begnion had been blocked for decades, and the idea of circling around through Daein was laughable. With no land routes open to them, the ocean was the only option.

That being said, laguz didn’t sail, so there were no ports or shipyards anywhere in Gallia. The Greil Mercenaries would have to return to Daein-held Crimea just to find a vessel and captain who could take them. This would be no easy task, and Soren knew there was a chance they would never even see the deck of a ship. If they made it that far, they would find themselves on a three-month voyage that would sure to be neither easy nor comfortable. But whatever the case, he had to agree it was the best plan they had.

Before returning north, they spent several days resting and ‘enjoying’ Gallian hospitality. They were given their own wing of the castle, in which everyone was assigned their own room and servants were readily available (even though they clearly resented doting on beorc).

Caineghis seemed to genuinely regret that he couldn’t help Elincia more, and he gave the mercenaries a large sum of money for transport and battle expenses. He also arranged a second wagon full of supplies. Traditionally laguz didn’t domesticate animals or travel by carriage, but some engaged in these activities as hobbyists. The mules were fat and poorly exercised, but they were a boon nonetheless. 

The king also signed an order temporarily transferring Lethe and Mordecai to Ike’s command, and he threw in Ranulf as a guide. There was no reason Lethe and Mordecai couldn’t continue to guide them, which meant Ranulf was probably just a symbol of the king’s authority. Soren could only guess he was meant to smooth the way and placate prejudiced beast-men who might try to stop them.

On the fifth day, everyone prepared to leave Zarzi, and for the first time since Gebal, Soren found Ike alone. He still hadn’t given him the report from the battle at the fjord. Now he gripped it firmly and approached.

Ike was sitting on a stone bench in one of the flat grassy courtyards that spotted the castle’s upper levels. There was no wall or even a fence barring the precipitous drop, but the view was admittedly breathtaking and Ike was sitting a good distance from the edge.

“Ike, here’s a summary of our last battle.” Soren began, handed him the scroll.

Ike didn’t seem bothered by the interruption. He quickly skimmed the paper, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket as if for safekeeping. “Thanks, Soren.”

He didn’t know what to say. Was this what their friendship had become? Was Soren merely a secretary who gave him reports he pretended to read? “That’s all I have to report,” he finally said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait, Soren,” Ike called.

“Yes?”

“King Caineghis says that I’m lucky to have you.”

Soren was taken aback. “Why would you be talking with him about me?”

Ike shook his head and chuckled. “Don’t worry about whatever it is you worry yourself about. He wanted to know about all the mercenaries. But anyway, he said to keep you close in this war.”

“I already said I wouldn’t leave you,” Soren reminded.

“I know,” Ike tossed his head and changed the subject. “This is so strange. I would never have guessed I’d be here, in my father’s place, leading the company in a _war_... Did you know they gave me my mother and father’s old room? There’s a kid’s bed and a cradle. They didn’t change a thing… I think the king really wants to be welcoming to beorc. But all this tension—all this about laguz and beorc—it’s a whole new world.”

Soren remained silent. He had a feeling Ike’s musing was rhetorical. But when he didn’t continue, he wondered if he should have said something after all.

“I know you don’t like it here,” Ike finally said, his voice quiet. “Titania says most people are raised to fear and hate laguz.”

“I have my own reasons to dislike the laguz,” Soren replied. Since coming here, he hadn’t been blatantly ignored. No one looked through him as if he didn’t exist. But the servants and guards seemed to avoid looking at or interacting with him if they could help it, and Soren didn’t know whether this was paranoia or reality.

They were silent for a while longer, and Soren was glad Ike didn’t pry. Finally he spoke, changing the subject again: “On our way to Begnion we’ll pass the isles of Phoenicis and Kilvas. King Gallia says the bird tribes might cause us trouble. With some of the money he gave us, you should go buy some Elwind spells from the merchants. It might come in handy to turn their wings against them.”

“Thank you, Ike.” Soren said. “That is a good strategy.”

“Titania suggested it,” he admitted with a small smile.

Soren nodded and turned to leave. This time Ike didn’t call him back.

They took a more direct route back to Crimea, cutting their travel time down to only two weeks (Soren assumed this was possible due to Ranulf’s presence). Most nights they camped under the stars, but occasionally they lodged in an old fort along the way. When they made camp far from any beast towns, Ranulf gave permission for the mercenaries to draw their weapons and train. At this, they would spar immediately and with great enthusiasm, sometimes even skipping dinner. No one wanted to reenter Crimea with dulled instincts or a rusty arm.

During his years with the Greil Mercenaries, Soren had often practiced alongside the others, but he’d never played the role of instructor. Ike changed that now. “Soren, Ilyana,” he told them, “You two need to train everyone how to withstand magical attacks.”

Ilyana looked nervous. “I don’t know if I would be a good teacher…”

Soren said nothing.

“Back when we were just a regular mercenary company, we didn’t have to worry about things like this, but Daein will have plenty of mage soldiers in its army, so we’ve got to be prepared. I’m counting on you!” Ike’s eyes were shining.

Soren sighed. He could not refute such logic (or Ike’s excitement). “Alright then.”

Ilyana smiled, her confidence returning. “I will do my best, Commander Ike.”

Wielders of traditional weapons could easily practice with a blunted blade, bat, or long stick. Archers needed only targets, and if they wished to spar hand-to-hand, they could bring a simple slingshot into the ring to develop skills like dodging in close quarters and regaining footing to return fire. Mages on the other hand, required careful concentration and sufficient mastery of their elements to conjure blunted versions of their spells. (After all, it wouldn’t do to maim one’s comrades.)

Soren and Ilyana began most training sessions by demonstrating full-powered spells, slowly repeating the incantation so the others would know what keywords to listen for, and re-explaining the best practices for predicting, avoiding, or deflecting the attacks. Then they would spar with one mercenary after another.

The weakened form of Thunder produced a mild spark, which would give an opponent an annoying (but innocuous) buzz. The speed and trajectory were the same as a regular spell, and therefore suitable for training purposes. Similarly, instead of Wind, Soren produced heavy gusts that could knock a fly out of the air but not hurt it. And finally, instead of Fire, the weakened spell conjured a hot plume of smoke that would cause the opponent to sneeze and choke but couldn’t actually burn anything.

Sileas had never sparred with Soren or forced him to fight anyone else. During his years alone, Soren had only fought when absolutely necessary. Instinct and desperation had been his teachers. And when he’d attempted to train himself, he had merely hit targets. It was only since joining the mercenaries that Soren had been forced to spar hand-to-hand. Over the years, he’d gotten quite used to it, and yet, these matches in Gallia were an entirely new experience.

Everyone was eager (some even vehement) to improve and grow stronger, and this included becoming better at fighting mages. Boyd and Mia in particular threw themselves at Soren and Ilyana’s tutelage—and often at Soren and Ilyana themselves. In return, Ike pushed the mages to improve their ability to dodge, reverse leverage, and even throw a punch or kick if need be. Soren hadn’t trained this hard in years, and he certainly hadn’t felt as incompetent as he did when being thrown into the dirt over and over.

Despite the bruises, embarrassment, and general hassle of the training, Soren found one advantage to these sparring matches that made the whole process worthwhile. Ike often chose to spar with Soren first, and when they were fighting, they would chat in an attempt to distract one another. Until the match ended, Soren had his friend to himself again, and it was as if they were simply friends after all. He could forget Ike was now his commander. He could forget he was in Gallia. He could even forget about the war.

Ike was most alive when he was fighting, and Soren was able to share this vivacity without the chaos of battle around them. There were no stakes. At worst, Soren would blow a large cloud of smoke into his chest, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to the forest floor. Or conversely, Ike’s practice sword would strike Soren in the knee, unbalancing him and leaving a nasty welt.

“Watch my feet,” Ike reprimanded in his usual way, “and my legs.” He moved through a set of offensive stances again. “Attacks only work with weight behind them. You can tell where the attack is coming from by where my weight is. You can tell where my weight is by where it isn’t.”

Soren rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not Ike, I know the basics of swordsmanship.”

“Getting cocky, is he?” Ike returned. “Let’s see how he does.” He moved through the stances again, faster this time.

“There!” Soren called when he saw his heel lift. He dodged the blade and stepped around Ike’s reach. He immediately released a blunted wind spell, and Ike dropped to avoid the gust. He kicked out a foot on the way down, and they both landed among the dirt and pine needles.

Ike was laughing. “When falling, anything’s game.”

Soren picked the needles out of his hair. “Such wisdom,” he noted airily. “Greil must have been quite the instructor.”

Ike picked himself up, grinning widely.

Elincia clapped from where she sat spectating. “Good show, Sir Ike!” she called.

In response, he rubbed the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly in her direction. Then he called to Marcia, who was standing behind the princess. She was holding a wooden pole and the reins of her pegasus. “You’re next, Marcia! Let’s see if you and Dovetail have learned anything since yesterday.”

Marcia’s smile was cunning. “I think you misremember who won last night’s match, Commander.” She mounted her steed and trotted forward.

Soren understood his time with Ike was over, and he left the makeshift ring. Rolf was eagerly awaiting his turn by an adjacent ring, in which Titania and Lethe were currently sparring. “Let me try again, let me try again!” he begged Soren. “I’m way faster than last time. Don’t go easy on me. I’m really going to get you this time!”

As annoyed with the boy’s exuberance as he was, Soren knew it was his job to spar with all the of the mercenaries, and Rolf needed the most improvement. He agreed, and as soon as Titania and Lethe were done, he joined the boy in the ring (or rather the assortment of stones and sticks arranged in something close to a circle). He spent the next half hour showing the kid no mercy. Oscar frowned disapprovingly, but Boyd laughed every time Rolf landed on his butt.

After a few more pairings, Soren ended his evening, as he always did, by sparring with Ilyana. He’d had few occasions to fight fellow mages in his life, and so this was a valuable experience. Ilyana was hardly more than a novice herself, but she was creative and often unpredictable. Outside of a battle, she struck Soren as lazy and lethargic, and she acted timid around strangers. But in battle, she was full of energy. She never second guessed herself or held herself back as Soren would have expected.

“*Come down, Spirits of lightning!*” Ilyana called to the sky. Her pronunciation of the ancient language was crisp, albeit accented in the common tongue.

Soren felt the little hairs on the back of his neck and his arms rise at the pressure dropped. He lunged to the side, but the greenish spark zig-zagged to the ground faster than he could move and pinged his arm before he was clear. He felt a small vibrating and then a numbing sensation, but he caught himself out of the dodge and returned fire: “*Fly spirits of wind!*”

Rather than dropping to the ground, Ilyana raised her pink cape with one arm and twirled around the gust, using the fabric’s fluttering as a guide to safety. She swiftly released another spell: “*Come down, Spirits of lightning!*”

Soren was better this time. He avoided the spark entirely and spoke rapidly enough to utter two spells in quick succession. “*Fly spirits of wind!*” he said to release a gust of wind, and then “*Smolder, Spirits of flame!*” to conjure a ball of black smoke.

Although she knew what was coming, Ilyana couldn’t prepare herself in time, and the burst of smoke got her cape and her side, knocking her off balance and into the dirt. Had it been a real attack, she would have been set ablaze.

Coughing faintly, she remained lying on the ground. “Alright then,” she said contentedly. “You win tonight. I’m too hungry to concentrate on practice anyway.”

“Fair enough,” Soren replied and walked out of the ring.

Rhys jumped in to make sure she was okay and help her up, but Soren knew she was fine. She did this every night—when she was done fighting, she was absolutely done. All of her energy left her, and she was happy to sit or lay wherever she found herself.

Soren went to find something to drink, since his throat was dry from uttering incantations all evening. To his surprise, Elincia left the stump on which she’d been watching Ike’s duel and met him at the water barrel.

“Good evening, Soren,” she greeted him, perhaps a little nervously.

He didn’t say anything right away. He merely sipped and give her a withering look.

“I, um, wanted to commend you for your magery,” she began in her prim dialect, every word uttered distinctly. Even the interjected ‘um’ sounded prescribed.

Soren still said nothing.

“You know, my good friend Bastian is a wind mage like yourself. When I watch you spar, you remind me of him. He used to perform for me… He knew how bored I could be at the palace.”

“Bastian,” Soren repeated. “You mean the Count of Fayre.”

“Ah yes, you know hi-”

He didn’t let her finish. “Lord Bastian Count of Fayre, rumored to be King Ramon’s spymaster, tactician, and trusted confidant. A man employed by the crown and three times your age. He’s one you count as a good friend?”

“Well, I-”

“Of course,” Soren continued, “I’m using the wrong tense. He’s presumed dead. He was at the palace with the Late Lord Renning and the Late King Ramon, wasn’t he? Hm, now that I ask the question, I do wonder. He couldn’t have been much of a spymaster if he allowed King Ashnard to march all the way to Melior without a word of warning… Or perhaps he wasn’t much of a trusted confidant.”

His words were even more effective than he’d predicted, and tears were already welling in Elincia’s eyes. “You-you dare tarnish his good name!” Her face was flushed with anger.

Soren was already tired of this game. “I am merely speculating,” he said with a wave of his hand. “It is by speculating that I best serve the interests of the Greil Mercenaries.”

Elincia clutched her skirt. “Of course, I understand.” With the barest curtsy (which looked more like a compulsive twitch), she excused herself.

Soren watched her return to her tent instead of Ike’s ring. He wondered if she was going to cry in privacy. _She has to toughen up eventually_ , he thought to himself. He then wondered why that interaction had occurred in the first place. _Oh right,_ he realized, _She came to give me a compliment._


	23. CHAPTER 23: CANTEUS CASTLE

As they neared Crimea, they slowed and tread more carefully. They would enter near Canteus Castle, a beorc fort that presided over the Crimean side of the border. Centuries ago, it had been the scene of major battles between Crimeans and Gallians. But in recent years, Ramon had only staffed it with a minimal guard.

Ranulf scouted ahead and, when he returned, confirmed their suspicions the fort had already been seized by Daein. He also reported that it was serving as a prison for captured Crimeans. Their plan had been to sneak by unnoticed, but after hearing Ranulf’s report, Elincia begged to free the prisoners.

Ike and Titania readily agreed, and even Ranulf seemed to think it was a good idea. Having entered the castle himself, he wasted no time devising an infiltration strategy. Soren was hesitant as he watched him work, but Ranulf reported seeing a stockpile of Crimean weapons and armor, which meant these prisoners were probably soldiers. Being rescued by a secret princess might inspire them to join Elincia’s entourage and further boost their fighting power. With this thought in mind, Soren finally consented to the cat’s plan.

Elincia and the merchants broke away from the mercenaries with the wagons and Titania’s, Oscar’s, and Marcia’s steeds in tow. They would enter Crimea by the previously determined route, and Ranulf promised to catch up to them shortly. But first he would help the mercenaries sneak into the castle.

They moved through the dark forest without torches and they muffled their armor with rags. The laguz used their keen night vision and sense of smell to guide them to an old service entrance. The lock was already broken from Ranulf’s previous visit.

The company filed into the narrow corridor and then into the basement where the cells were located. Most of the soldiers were sleeping, and those on guard didn’t expect any attack.

“Oh, this reminds me of when Commander Greil saved me from those ruins,” Mia whispered nostalgically. “Good ol’ Greil Mercenaries coming to the rescue again!”

“ _Shh!_ ” Titania reprimanded, as Mia’s voice has gotten too loud.

She clamped her mouth shut but was still smiling at the memory.

Gesturing for everyone to stop moving and stay silent, Ranulf peered around the corner into the dungeon’s main room. Soren didn’t know what he saw on the other side, but he had little doubt there were guards nearby. “The question is,” Ranulf whispered, “how do you open those cells and free the prisoners?” He sounded anxious and was directing his question at Ike.

They exchanged places, and Ike took a peek at the room. “The cells are sure to be locked,” he said once he’d brought his head back in, “so in order to open them…” He seemed as uncertain as Ranulf.

Obviously, the cells were going to be locked and under heavy guard—they should have thought of that when making the decision to risk their lives for these prisoners. But there was no going back now. “Logic would dictate that the keys will be in the possession of the jailer,” Soren whispered in reasonable tones. “We’ve no choice but to steal them. If we’re lucky, the guards will have keys as well. In either case, we must move with caution. We don’t want to trade blows with the entire castle garrison.”

In the best-case scenario, the mercenaries would rescue all the prisoners and quietly eliminate the guards on the lower levels, before anyone could raise an alarm and awaken the whole fort. If all went smoothly, the mercenaries and escapees would slip out the other side and meet Elincia and Ranulf in Crimea proper.

In the second-best scenario, the mercenaries freed most of the prisoners and eliminated most the guards relatively quietly, but a contingent still pursued them beyond the walls. The mercenaries would have to lose them or defeat them in the woods before reuniting with the princess.

In the third-best scenario, the mercenaries freed some of the prisoners, accidentally woke the fort, and escaped with their lives and at least a few prisoners. In the worst-case scenario, the mercenaries woke the fort and were routed before escaping.

“Which means we stay close to the walls and avoid being seen or heard, right?” Ike was saying. Soren returned his attention to the conversation and nodded. “Alright then. Our first priority is to get our hands on the cell keys.” He sounded excited, as if he were a child again and this a new game.

“Hey, you there!” Ranulf hissed suddenly and lunged between Boyd and Mist. He darted through the mercenaries quick as a flash, even in his unshifted form. Everyone jumped slightly but froze in place. They watched as Ranulf held a strange man against the wall with his arm behind his back.

The man didn’t struggle, and his other hand was raised in an expression of surrender. But his eyes, which inspected the mercenaries over the curve of his shoulder, didn’t convey the same message. They were shrewd, exacting, and not the least threatened. The man himself was a beorc of moderate height and a lean build. He was dressed all in black and brown and didn’t wear a speck of armor. On his belt hung a long dagger, a medium-sized knife, a small bag, and what appeared to be a smoke pipe. He carried nothing else, and he’d made no effort to draw either weapon before Ranulf grabbed him. Soren would wager he wasn’t a Daein soldier.

“I have business with Sir Greil. Where is he?” the man said in a low voice. Ranulf let go, and Soren, Ike, and Titania moved to the back of the group to address the stranger more clearly.

“You’re sorely lacking in social etiquette, aren’t you?” Soren noted. “State your business.”

“I’ll speak with Sir Greil and Sir Greil alone. Now take me to him.”

Titania took a threatening step forward, clenching her fists. She seemed irrationally angry, perhaps thinking anyone who was not up to date on Greil’s current condition was obviously scum. “What you ask is impossible. Commander Greil is dead.”

“Well, that _is_ a problem,” he replied slyly.

That made Titania even angrier (probably from his lack of complete desolation at the news). “Just who are you, anyway?” she snapped.

“Call me Volke. Sir Greil hired me. I’m in—” he seemed to think for a moment “— _intelligence_.”

“My father hired you?” Ike’s voice was tinged with equal parts hope and confusion.

“You are Sir Greil’s son, correct?” Volke examined him and nodded. “You’ll do. Sir Greil hired me to investigate something. You pay my price, and I’ll give you my report. Deal?”

“How much?” Ike asked.

“Fifty thousand. Gold.”

Silence followed his words. It was an outrageous sum, but if Volke expected it to be paid, Soren could only imagine what information he was sitting on. If he knew to intercept them at Canteus Castle, he must have a source inside Gallia. Not many intelligencers could claim that.

“That’s a bit steep.” Ike finally said.

“And worth every penny,” Volke assured.

Ike shook his head. “I don’t have that much. Give me some time.”

Volke raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re willing to pay?”

“My father hired you. He must have had a good reason.”

“Are you sure, Commander? We have no way of knowing if he’s telling the truth.” Titania gave Volke a reproachful look.

“We’ll know when we see the contents of that report. Until then, let’s have him travel with us,” Ike reasoned.

Volke didn’t seem to like that idea. “So that’s your plan, eh? Listen. You get the report when I get paid. I am not waiting around until then. I’ll keep my information for the time being. Call me when you’ve got the gold. Stop into any tavern along your way. Tell the barkeep you’ve need of a firearm. You’ll see me within an hour.” He turned to leave.

“Hold a moment!” Soren commanded, keeping his voice quiet but forceful.

Volke stopped in his tracks and turned curiously.

“Intelligence…” Soren repeated. If what this man said about the barkeeps was true, he was intending to follow them anyway. He could be a useful resource if his skills matched his claims. “You said you were in intelligence, right? Is information the only thing you sell?”

“Come out with it. What are you asking?”

“Locks,” Soren stated simply. “Can you open locks?”

“Sure. Fifty gold per lock.” Volke shrugged. Again, it was an outrageous fee.

Ike turned to Soren. “You’re going to have him open the cell doors?”

“Is that wise?” Titania cautioned. “We’ve only just met him. There’s no telling if we can trust him.”

Ike stared at Volke as if trying to determine if he was friend or foe. “Volke, will you help us break into these cells?” he finally asked.

“As long as I get paid, I’ve got no complaint.”

Soren was oddly pleased. In fact, he was going to enjoy having this guy around. Soren’s biggest concern about this mission was that the mercenaries were incapable of subtly. None among them was suited for covert operations. 

“Titania? Objections?” Ike asked.

Titania sighed. “I told you before, didn’t I? You’re the Commander. If you decide on a course of action, I will but follow.”

Ranulf clapped his hands together, bringing them all back to the present situation. “Righto!” he said in a loud whisper. “I’m off. Good luck and all that.”

“What? Wait! You’re not going to help us here?” Ike seemed disappointed.

“Much as I would like to. I have a job to do. I will rejoin you when I’m finished.” Ike still seemed confused, so Ranulf covered the side of his mouth as if sharing a secret and whispered, “My job is escorting Princess Elincia, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Ike shook his head as if feeling foolish. “Well, good luck to you then.”

“Yes, and to you as well.” Ranulf nudged his shoulder and grinned at Ike’s expense. Although Soren was annoyed at the cat’s impudence, Ike didn’t seem to mind. He just smiled warmly as Ranulf transformed and bounded back through the tunnel. (They’d become fast friends in just a couple weeks, and Soren didn’t understand it at all).

When Ranulf was gone, Ike drew his sword, and everyone mirrored him by drawing their own weapons—everyone except Volke. “Volke, you and I are going in first,” Ike said to him. “Earn some coin getting those cells unlocked and I’ll talk to the prisoners.” Volke just shrugged, but when Ike moved to the front, he slithered obediently in his shadow. “Everyone, stay low and quiet. Follow us and be ready to fight if we’re spotted. Marcia, Oscar, watch our rear. Ilyana, no lightning unless completely necessary, okay? Lethe, Mordecai, try not to roar.”

Marcia, Oscar, and Ilyana each saluted. Lethe and Mordecai just nodded seriously.

“We’re going to save as many Crimeans as possible, you hear? Greil Mercenaries, move out!” Ike’s usual battle cry was no more than a hoarse whisper, but it did its job to enliven the others. With a quick glimpse around the corner, Ike and Volke twisted into the adjacent room. Soren and Mia were next, followed by Titania and Mist, Boyd, Rolf, and Rhys, Lethe and Mordecai, and finally Oscar and Marcia.

The room was dark except for the glow of a few torches, and Soren could see only two guards leaning against the far wall. The ceiling was supported by pillars, and two of the four walls were lined with cells. It was hard to tell which ones were occupied. The first cell door creaked open under Volke’s deft fingers, and the soldiers suddenly tensed.

Soren could hear Ike whispering to the prisoners, although he couldn’t pick out the words. One of the guards took a torch from the wall. “Hey, no talking!” he ordered the darkness.

Ike and Volke moved onto the next cell. Mia and Titania, meanwhile were creeping up to the soldiers on the opposite side. Soren moved closer and muttered a dousing spell to suffocate one of the nearest torches and lend them more darkness.

This spooked the guards, and they exchanged nervous glances. Another cell door creaked open, and once again Soren heard Ike’s voice whispering.

“Hey, I said no talking! I’m not going to warn you Crimean pigs again!”

Mia was close now, and the soldiers would see her if they turned their heads. But they didn’t. She lashed out with her sword and cut one’s throat. He wasn’t wearing neck guard or even a helmet. Titania lunged at the other, but not before he cried out in fear and surprise. Her killing stroke wasn’t clean, and he continued to gurgle for help until she ended his life.

This brought a march of steps from the other room. But Rolf and Boyd were ready. Rolf loosed an arrow, and Boyd threw a small hand axe as soon as the guards turned the corner. Soren already had a Wind spell prepared and unleash it on the third. But these weren’t clean kills either. All three continued to scream and cry out. Lethe and Mordecai pounced forward, clamping their jaws on the Daeins’ throats, and Mia rushed to take care of the last one.

Soren listened intently to the silence that followed. First, he heard the sounds of prisoners waking up. They moaned and asked what was going on, who was there. Then, he heard the tramp of footsteps—they were coming from behind. 

Reinforcements came from the rear first, descending the steps beside the service tunnel. Marcia and Oscar were ready for them and started jabbing and slashing their lances into any face that dared round the corner.

Then came the sound of more boots pounding the floor in the next room. Titania and Boyd were ready, hidden on either side of the threshold, and they swung out their axes in unison to take the newcomers by surprise. Unfortunately there were far more this time, and fighting spilled into the dungeon.

“What the hell is-” a garrison commander exclaimed when he ran in, but his question died in his throat when he saw the infiltrators in the gloom. Soren aimed a wind spell at his neck, hoping to kill him quickly.

The mercenaries continued to fight, and Volke continued to open doors. Soren checked the pockets and belts of every guard he came across, and he knew several of the others were doing the same. When he found keys, he threw them in the nearest cell to let the prisoners do the rest. When Ike wasn’t fighting, he was talking to them, and soon they’d grown into a mob that trailed behind him like so many confused ducklings.

Although they had no weapons, some of the prisoners tried to help. They freed others and talked to them, explaining that they were being rescued by the resistance army of a secret Princess of Crimea. Whether or not they believed this story, they were all willing to follow the mercenaries if it meant being rescued. Some of the escapees even helped break into the jailor’s storage room to reclaim their confiscated weapons and armor.

Just then, a bolt of lightning lit up the dungeon, and the sound of the blast popped Soren’s ears. The light disappeared in an instant, leaving him and everyone else momentarily blinded. But his mind was clear. Apparently Ilyana had had no choice but to defend herself with a Thunder spell, and with that, the ruse was up.

“So much for stealth,” Soren sighed aloud. He started using fire spells, having held back until now. He chanted as fast as he could, and his comrades fought frantically. Now that they’d woken the castle, it was time to get out as soon as possible. Titania and Boyd beat on the cage doors with their axes, freeing prisoners without need of keys.

The mercenaries charged like a cleansing wildfire through the stone rooms and iron bars. They tried every door they found, looking for a way out. Titania smashed a lock and threw open the door, and Soren felt a burst of fresh night air.

“Good work, Captain Titania!” Ike laughed. He turned to the crowd behind him, calling, “Time to get out of here!” Then he handed her a torch. “Lead them out.”

Titania nodded and obeyed, but Soren stayed with Ike. They passed torches to every fourth person, and when the last mercenary was accounted for, he and Ike toppled a chest of drawers to bar the entrance. After safely climbing over it into the hallway, Soren set it aflame. There were Daein soldiers hot on their heels, but this would at least slow them down.

Then he and Ike raced down the hall, up some stairs, and down another corridor until they found themselves exiting Canteus Castle into Crimean. Soren looked up at the moon and wondered at their good fortune in coming out on the right side.

“Douse your torches! Stay close!” Ike ordered as he ran up the column of mercenaries and prisoners.

Soren tried to keep up, but there were too many people and the forest was becoming too dense. The prisoners ran in a jumble of flailing limbs, held hands, and whispered shouts: “Are you there? Where are we going?”

Before long, Soren disentangled himself and fell back to where half of the mercenaries were guarding the rear.

They ran for nearly four miles, but it was hard to tell at this time of night in woods so thick. Finally they rested in a cave. It had begun to rain, which would help cover their escape.

Soren did a quick headcount and was satisfied to see that all eleven mercenaries and the two laguz had survived. In addition, they’d acquired over forty Crimean prisoners of war. Not everyone could fit in the cave, so Rhys and Mist attended the injured inside while everyone else got soaked.

Soren tracked down Ike and Titania in the deluge. Then the trio lit a torch and used their bodies to shield the light. With this they pored over the map, trying to find their position relative to the rendezvous.

Just then, Lethe approached. She glanced distastefully at the sodden paper. “I have picked up Captain Ranulf’s trail,” she announced. “But the rain may wash it away if we linger here too long.”

Ike looked up at the sky, and his eyelashes trembled under the onslaught of raindrops. In the feeble firelight, his usually fierce eyes seemed tamed. “Alright,” he finally said, looking at Lethe. “Let’s get everyone up. We move out now.”

Some of the prisoners groaned, but most were quiet and contrite as they followed Lethe through the dark, wet forest. The rain began to let up, and eventually Soren could see stars in the gaps between the clouds. Eventually these too faded. It was dawn when they reached the pond they’d chosen as their rendezvous point.

Ranulf, Elincia, and the merchants were here and already awake. Everyone came to greet the mercenaries. Elincia hoisted her damp skirts in both hands as she ran. Aimee squeezed Ilyana and pecked the top of her head like a mother. Marcia’s pegasus pranced to her, and Titania and Oscar’s horses knickered excited. After grasping Ike’s shoulders in a familiar way, Ranulf consulted with him and the beast laguz about the battle’s outcome. Meanwhile, most of the ex-prisoners stayed together, apparently unsure what to do now.

One, however, separated from the crowd, ran toward Princess Elincia, and prostrated himself at her feet. He claimed to be a Royal Knight, and Oscar vouched for him. The knight—whose name was Kieran—immediately announced his desire to join Princess Elincia’s entourage. Ike and Elincia agreed. Soren was satisfied with this; a Royal Knight would be a strong addition to their fighting power.

After Kieran’s outburst and impromptu speech, the princess made a more formal one to the prisoners. She explaining her identity (which Kieran’s support helped validate) and gave them the option of returning home or joining her effort to free Crimea from Daein control. She didn’t mention their intention to sail to Begnion, which Soren thought was prudent. Those who didn’t join them would become liabilities, and they could easily trade their knowledge to the Daein army in return for favorable standing in the new regime.

Despite the princess’s entreaty, only two more people came forward to join the mercenary army. Both were militiamen who’d heeded the call to arms when Daein had first attacked. Their mobilization hadn’t lasted long, and Daein had quickly captured them and marched them to that dungeon for interrogation. One was a middle-aged man named Brom. He claimed to be good with an axe and had even managed to rescue his armor from Canteus Castle during their escape.

The other new recruit was a young woman named Nephenee. To Soren’s astonishment, she was the same person who’d invited him to dinner all those years ago. However, she didn’t appear to recognize him, which was for the best. She also appeared much shyer now that she was removed from the comfort of her family farm.

 _War makes the world small_ , Soren thought as he watched Kieran, Brom, and Nephenee swear fealty to Princess Elincia. He turned his attention back to the prisoners. They’d begun to spread out, mingle, and relax in the warm sun. But then he saw something that made his heart skip a beat. The world was even smaller than he’d thought.

His eyes were stuck on a familiar form, a few heads shorter than the rest of the rescued Crimeans. The bobbed hair in the back of her head faded in an out of view, but Soren kept his eyes trained on the spot as he walked toward it. The Crimeans noted his purposeful strides and made way. Soren reached out and touched her shoulder.

Koure turned. Recognition bloomed in her eyes, but Soren was hardly looking at those. He was staring at the swollen, heavily bruised right side of her face. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and the skin was broken with little cuts underneath. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Soren!” Koure threw her arms around him and smiled despite the pain the expression must have brought to her right cheek.

Embarrassed by her affection, Soren swiftly removed himself from her embrace and stepped back. She didn’t seem bothered and merely tilted her head and grinned slightly as if to say ‘typical Soren’. Once he’d made sure none of the mercenaries were looking, he grabbed her hand and led her to the back of the crowd.

“You’re with the mercenaries who saved us?” Koure asked as they walked.

“Yes,” Soren replied. “And you were captured by Daein?” He knew she must be seventeen now, but she still looked young. She could have been mistaken for a child, which made it surprising the Daeins had selected her for imprisonment.

“I tried to fight back when the soldiers came.” Koure shrugged. “And when I was captured, I guess I asked too many questions.” She pointed at her injured face.

“Did the soldiers hurt you?” It was a stupid question given the circumstances, but Koure seemed to understand what he meant.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Actually, there was this Daein general named Petrine, and when she was at the fort, she ordered the men not to touch any of the women. Some of the prisoners were tortured for information, but not me. I just got slapped around if I was annoying.”

“You said you were asking questions?” Soren asked urgently. She could be an asset if she’d managed to extract any information from a loose-tongued soldier.

Koure shook her head. “Nothing relevant to your commander I bet.” She looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t really asking about the invasion… I was… Well, it’s a long story.”

“I have a few minutes,” Soren replied seriously.

Koure smiled. “Okay, well, after my father died, my aunt let slip that I was found in Daein. Father’d never told me that before. But I never really knew anything _about_ Daein, and now that I had the chance, I wanted to… I wanted to know more about the place where I was born, and, coincidentally, the people who invaded my homeland.” She ran a hand through her hair as if distressed. “I didn’t learn much.”

“I understand,” Soren surprised himself by saying. “I was born in Daein too.” He was stunned that the words had just slipped out of his mouth. He’d never told that to anyone but Greil and Elena. He was also surprised to find that what he said was the truth; of course he wanted to know about his parents and his home, if he’d ever had the right to one.

Koure grinned encouragingly. “I didn’t know that. Oh Ashera, it’s good to see you again! I didn’t know if I ever would.”

“War makes the world small,” he mused aloud this time. She nodded solemnly, and they were both silent for a moment. “What will you do now?” Soren finally asked. “Will you fight for Princess Elincia?” Koure shook her head slowly, and Soren was surprised by the disappointment he felt. _What do I care what she does?_ he asked himself, and yet he asked aloud, “What will you do then?”

She glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. “I want to go to Daein,” she said quietly. “To see if I can find where I came from. Maybe I even have family still alive.”

Soren thought about this for a moment. “Okay,” he finally said.

“I know the timing is odd…” They stood awkwardly for a few moments, until Koure finally changed the subject. “I returned to the temple, but the whole place had burned down years before I got back. I asked around. Some said you’d died in the fire. Others said you’d started it.”

Soren frowned. “I didn’t.”

Koure offered a comforting smile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t believe them.”

Now it was Soren’s turn. “I went the Home, a couple years after you did. But you were gone.”

“I didn’t last long there… It wasn’t a good fit.” Koure seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “How was it?”

“Can’t say.” Soren shook his head. “It wasn’t a good fit for me either.”

Koure grimaced, and Soren was reminded of the painful wound on her face. “I’ll bring you to a healer who can fix your cheek,” he said, his tone businesslike.

Koure nodded in agreement, and Soren led her away from the crowd. This time he didn’t hold her hand. He led her without turning around to even make sure she was following. Then he dropped her off with Mist and pretended he had something urgent to speak to Ike about.

“Thank you,” Koure called when he was leaving.

Soren just nodded, not trusting his voice to sound normal. He didn’t want the other mercenaries to be suspicious. He didn’t want them to know anything about his life before joining the company.

After busying himself with errands for Ike, Soren watched the freed prisoners walk north along the shore of the lake. They were going home, hoping to find their farms unburned and leave their horrific experiences behind. Soren couldn’t pick Koure out of the crowd, but he knew she was leaving with the rest. When the Crimeans were out of sight, Soren felt he could breathe easily again. He approached Ike to see what the next move would be.

“What is your plan now?” he asked.

Ike shook his head. “There is no need to hurry off right away. Everyone needs to rest a little bit after the battle. Mist and Rhys are seeing to the injured as we speak. We have to wait for Ranulf anyway. He is scouting our route.”

Soren nodded. He had expected as much.

Then Volke suddenly appeared. “Ike,” he said, making everyone jump. It was as if he had been invisible only a moment before.

“Oh, hello, Volke. What do you want?”

“I was thinking about traveling with you for a bit. I’ll be in the general area, so if you need anything, you can call me. I’ll help you out—for a fee, of course.”

“What did you say?” Titania demanded, outraged.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Ike asked curiously. “In times such as these, there must be many parties that need ‘intelligence’.”

“You’ve sparked my curiosity. And besides…” He was about to say something more, but shook his head and seemed to think better of it. “No, we’ll just have to leave it at that.”

Titania crossed her arms. “ _That_ is not acceptable.”

“Don’t be so inflexible. It’s not as if I’ll be joining your merry band or anything. This is strictly business,” Volke replied slyly.

“And yet you-” she stormed.

“Titania,” Ike cautioned.

Soren decided it was time for him to speak his mind. He stepped between Titania and Volke. “I believe this is a good opportunity. We will almost certainly have need of this man’s talents. He is a dubious character at best, but at least we know his motives. Everything begins and ends with gold. He’ll be easy to control.”

“Soren,” Ike said, with one eyebrow raised, “he’s standing right there.”

“I don’t think he minds.” Soren didn’t turn to see if he thought correctly, but Volke made no protest.

Titania sighed. “What will it be, Ike? The decision is yours.”

“Very well,” Ike addressed Volke, “You may do as you like.”

“Excellent. Call me if you need anything.” With that, Volke slipped away again.

“First the thief and then that monk. What an odd class of characters you attract,” Ranulf’s voice sounded behind them. Ike twisted around with a wide smile to welcome him into the conversation. The monk Ranulf referred to was a man named Sephiran who claimed to be a religious pilgrim from Begnion who’d become caught in the war and imprisoned among with Crimeans. Soren hadn’t met the man himself, but he’d heard the story by now.

Ike, Ranulf, and Titania began chatting about monks, daring escapes, and other such things, so Soren took his leave of them. He decided to make himself useful by helping Rhys write up contracts for the new recruits.

“It doesn’t say Royal Knight anywhere on here!” Kieran complained as he screwed up his eyes to read Rhys’s tiny script.

“That’s because you’re not a Royal Knight anymore,” Soren answered. “You’re a mercenary employed by Princess Elincia under Commander Ike.”

Kieran bared his teeth. “Once a Royal Knight, always a Royal Knight!” He handed the paper back to Rhys as if to make an amendment, but Soren took it instead.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “The Royal Knights failed to protect Crimea from the Daein invasion. King Ashnard has declared victory, so the knights and militia have been disbanded and any _rebels_ imprisoned. Or didn’t you realize that when you were rotting in that cell?”

Kieran frowned. “It’s about honor, kid.” He held out his hand for Soren to give the contract back, but he didn’t.

Instead he held the paper in both hands as if prepared to rip it down the middle. “Becoming a mercenary will allow you to serve your precious princess. But you must leave that Royal Knight nonsense behind. Sell-swords own no land or titles. The only honor they know is the honor of the trade: coin for blood. If you cannot accept that, you have no place here.”

Soren was irritated to see his words had failed to dishearten or effect the red-haired knight in any way. He remained standing confidently, chin raised, a smile stretched to the side. “I hear you, kid, but knightliness runs in my veins! That needs to be acknowledged.”

Rhys sighed and took the contract from Soren. He let him have it and watched as he appended ‘Royal Knight of Crimea’ after Kieran’s name in the first line. Soren was annoyed Rhys let this fool have his way.

Kieran took the contract back and signed it enthusiastically. Then he jaunted off, and Nephenee and Brom approached from where they’d been reading and discussing their contracts nearby.

“Looks alright to me!” Brom said cheerily. “I might even make some money to bring home to my wife and kids when all this is done.”

Nephenee said nothing as she meekly handed Rhys the paper.

Rhys thanked them and asked if they had any questions.

“I suppose my only question is where to next?” Brom answered optimistically.

“Begnion,” Soren answered.

“Well I’ll be!” Brom laughed. “My mum always said I’d be a world traveler someday.”

Nephenee seemed curious but she still didn’t say anything.

Soren was bored with these Crimean farmers, so he took his leave of them. He milled among the others, who were resting by the lakeside, drinking and eating their fill. But they were also making preparations. It was dangerous to linger now that they were in Daein territory, and Soren was satisfied to find the mercenaries could push themselves despite their tiredness. They were ready to renew the trek within a quarter hour.


	24. CHAPTER 24: BEORC

They avoided main roads and cut cross-country whenever they could. They kept most of their weapons and armor hidden in the wagons, and the laguz wore long cloaks with deep hoods to hide their ears and tails. When they needed to resupply in town, they sent only small parties, unarmed and in plainclothes.

During these excursions, Soren always touched base with Volke, who could be found in every town they entered. Soren was not mystified by this. Rather, it seemed the man was merely averse to camping. He took the main roads and slept comfortably at inns in the towns the mercenaries avoided. Each time they met, Soren would use some of the funds Caineghis had given them to pay Volke for information he’d been able to gather about the occupation.

He was unsurprised by the tactics Volke described. Ashnard had declared victory early, and since then, he’d been solidifying his conquest by destroying any potential opposition. Here on the far edge of Crimea, the mercenaries were relatively safe from the roving armies, but they couldn’t afford to be careless.

Perhaps due to this caution, they arrived at their destination without a fight.

“Well, we’re here! Welcome to Toha, Crimea’s westernmost port city,” Ranulf announced, spreading his arms wide. He seemed familiar with the area, and Soren wondered if he may have been one of Gallia’s ambassadors during Ramon’s glory days of integration.

In addition to being the westernmost port, Toha was also the southernmost harbor in Crimea, and virtually the farthest away from Daein. The mercenaries were surprised by how calmly the townsfolk went about their daily lives, but Soren was not. There was not a Daein soldier in sight, and not a mention of one to be heard. Ashnard had secured his victory so fast, he hadn’t needed to bring violence this far from Melior. Why should these townspeople fret about their dead monarchs, their decimated armies, or the murder, imprisonment, and capitulation of their fellow citizens? Until the occupation forces arrived, it was surely easier to pretend nothing was wrong.

Given orders not to attract undue attention and not to wander off alone, the mercenaries were allowed to explore the town. Most were given tasks, such as re-shoeing the horses, purchasing provisions, repairing weapons and armor, or procuring a steed for Kieran (who was supposedly useless on foot). But Soren remained with Ike and Ranulf as they made their way down the main street.

“What’s up with this place?” Ike shook his head in disbelief. “The people are going about their business. Why aren’t they worried about Daein? About the _war?_ ”

“It’s because this area is fairly isolated,” Ranulf explained with a sigh. “Daein’s army hasn’t come this far, and so life goes on as before. Daein’s plan is to seize the capital, then slowly and steadily expand its sphere of influence until it controls everything.”

“Surely these people have some idea of what’s happening,” Ike pressed.

“Ignorance is a form of bliss, is it not?’ Soren explained bitterly. “These people don’t know what it’s like to lose a war. They don’t want to know. Crimea as a nation has always been blessed by peace. Perhaps this is due to the temperament of its rulers, but the country hasn’t seen serious warfare for centuries. While minor skirmishes with Daein have been legion, only the eastern borderlands have taken damage.”

Ike grew suddenly morose. “And yet even I know this peace won’t last. When we met Daein forces on our scouting mission, they attacked us just for being within the Crimean border.”

 _And for carrying weapons,_ Soren added mentally. But Ike was right. “Humans are shameless creatures that carelessly ignore any misfortune that does not befall them directly.” Soren intentionally avoided the term ‘beorc’ here, as he’d learned from Lethe that ‘human’ was as much an insult as ‘subhuman’, having come to represent the beorc’s apathy and depravity in equal measure. “They can—and often do—turn a blind eye to all manner of wickedness so long as it does not touch them or their kin. They will bow their heads, condemning those victims for bringing calamity upon themselves.” He continued in a cold voice: “And then they will cast their eyes toward heaven in thanks while their neighbors lay dying around them.”

“But the war is happening _here._ ” Ike rubbed a fist across his check as if distressed. “This is their home, not someone else’s.”

“When the Daein army darkens their doorsteps, perhaps they will understand. When the peace they take for granted is shattered, and their sons and daughters slaughtered in the streets…” Soren saw Ike’s face and stopped there. “Perhaps then they will comprehend the misfortunes they long pretended not to see. I have no sympathy for them.” Finding his hands starting to tremble, Soren turned abruptly and walked in a different direction.

He stopped behind the wall of a nearby and attempted to calm his mind. He had no idea where that sudden burst of ice-cold rage had come from. Unfortunately, he overheard Ranulf’s comment at his departure: “My goodness, the nastier the truth, the blunter he gets,” he said, “Quite a delightful staff officer you have there.”

Then he heard Ike’s reply: “He, um…he has an undeniable streak of severity in him, but…but this? Something’s bothering him, that’s for sure.” Soren peeked around the corner and saw Titania approach the pair. Not wanting to hear any more, he walked out of earshot. He always avoided thinking about what others might say about him behind his back, and he didn’t want to start worrying about it now.

After walking around the port a while, Soren wandered into a tavern and asked the barkeep for a firearm, as he’d become accustomed to doing. Then he ordered a coffee and sat at a corner table waiting for Volke. To pass the time he listened to the conversations of the tavern’s other occupants. It didn’t take long to determine that most belonged to some sort of gang. The group was comprised of young men and women who wore garish, barbarian-style clothes. They were all armed with viscous-looking weapons with serrated blades. But Soren kept his hood up, and they ignored him.

Volke finally arrived, sliding into the seat across from him. “What news?” Soren asked.

“Gold first.”

He sighed and passed a couple coins across the table. Volke’s asking price for rumors was far more reasonable than his price for locks.

“Dracoknights flew into the city five days ago looking for a band of Crimean resistors harboring a political fugitive. Flew north and made their camp nearby. Later joined by infantry and cavalry regiments. They’re monitoring the coast and have a finger in the harbormasters.”

“I see.” Soren nodded. “The sooner we’re gone the better. You will be sure to board the ship with the rest of us?”

“If that’s where the gold wants me to go,” Volke replied.

Soren slid him a few more coins. “What can you tell me about our company here.”

Volke glanced around and lowered his voice even further. “Local vigilantes. Considered heroes for shutting down a smuggling trade the Royal Knight couldn’t do anything about. Strong family values and anti-laguz sentiments.”

“Anything else?”

He just shrugged.

Soren stood and left the tavern. When he was on the street he glanced through the window and saw no sign of Volke inside. Rounding the corner, he kept his eyes peeled for fellow mercenaries. As he walked, he was glad to see they were all trying to stay in small groups and remain inconspicuous.

But a little while later, Soren encountered a ridiculous scene. Kieran was arguing with a small band of street performers, declaring loudly that the baton juggler was “doing it all wrong.” The ex-knight then pulled the batons out of the man’s hands and, with all bravado and little brain, set about showing the juggler a few sloppy tricks.

The display was attracting a bigger crowd than the juggler could had conjured on his own. It may have been amusing for the public, but the mercenaries were supposed to be keeping a low profile. Soren glared at Kieran, but he didn’t seem to notice. Mia and Oscar were among the crowd, looking both anxious and embarrassed. Soren slipped toward them and began speaking in hushed tones:

“Stop him. He is drawing too much attention, not to mention he’s making an idiot of himself. You two go talk to him as if he is a drunkard and not in his right mind. Escort him away as if his friends. Hopefully he will have the sense to play along.” He felt strange giving orders like this, but no one else was going to.

“You’re right,” Mia sighed. “Smart plan. Let’s go, Oscar.”

The pair pushed through the crowd. Oscar threw up his hands and began apologizing to the people. “Okay, okay. I think that’s enough. I’m sorry everyone. C’mon, Kieran. I think you’ve had more than enough to drink today. It’s hot. How about you come with us?”

Kieran peered at Oscar incredulously. “I haven’t had a drop! What are you talking about? A knight on duty would never permit a savory beverage pass his lips!”

Oscar shook his head wearily and glanced at Mia. “He’s completely delusional again.”

Mia finished picking up the scattered batons, returning them to the juggler. “Not again,” she sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “Come along, Kieran. Let’s get you a cool towel.”

“Lies!” Kieran cried indignantly, but then he froze and seemed to come to a realization. He scowled at Oscar. “My old rival! Hahaha, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing? Don’t think you can mess with _my_ head so easily! When next we fight, I will be the one messing with your mind! _Mwahaha_.”

“Yes, that’s all very nice,” Mia patronized. She began pushing Kieran away. He allowed himself be led but made gestures at Oscar all the while: repeatedly pointing at his eyes and then to Oscar, mouthing the words ‘I’ve got my eyes on you’ and grinning belligerently. When it was over, the crowd dispersed, and the harassed juggler went to find a different spot.

Soren walked on, trying to banish the ridiculous event from his memory, but he was so distracted, he almost didn’t notice Ilyana lying supine on the side of the road. When he did notice her, he glanced both ways in confusion. There were a few people around, but no one seemed to see her. Hesitantly, he approached and knelt down. She was still breathing and didn’t seem wounded. Someone snickered behind him. He twisted around, but the villager who’d made the noise whipped his head back and returned to the conversation he’d been having with a vendor.

“Ilyana?” Soren asked tentatively.

“ _Augh_ ,” she groaned. Her big lavender eyes opened slightly. “So…weak.” He waited for a further explanation. “So…hungry.” Her stomach gurgled to emphasize words. Soren stood quickly. Ilyana made another weak noise and let her head fall back.

“You’re _hungry_? That is why you’re always lying around? That is why you always act so sickly all the time?” he demanded. Some of the townspeople snorted with restrained laughter. Soren rounded on them.

“Hey, sorry kid,” one person laughed, “Should’ve told you, but the girl’s ‘opeless. She’s been there ‘alf the day. Suckered a lot of people into sharing the bread from their mornin’ shopping. Just scarfs it down an’ keeps lying there. Quite an appetite for such a tiny thing.”

Ilyana didn’t react to the implied accusation. She just raised her neck and repeated faintly: “So hungry.”

Soren shook his head. “Get up.”

Ilyana opened her eyes and raised her arms. She waited, and Soren realized she expected him to help her. Rolling his eyes, he did his best to heave her onto her feet. Despite being called ‘tiny’ by the townsperson, she was still taller than him, and this was no easy task. 

She brushed some of the dirt out of her hair. “Thank you.”

Soren sighed. “Let’s find some of the others. Obviously you can’t be left alone without falling over.”

Ilyana didn’t try to deny it.

The mages made their way back to the town center where Rhys, Ike, and Elincia stood under an awning. Most of the other mercenaries were scattered nearby. Soren dropped Ilyana on Mist without a word and approached Ike. He and Elincia were laughing. Apparently the odd one out, Rhys stepped away from the two lovebirds. He met Soren halfway.

“The wagons and supplies are all loaded, and the merchants boarded ahead of us,” he reported. “We expect we’ll be departing soon, so we’ve starting getting everyone together.”

A shadow of worry darkened Elincia’s face. “My lord Ike! There’s a crowd gathering at the town entrance…” Soren turned around, and his heart fell. Daein soldiers were marching through the city gates.

“That’s-” Ike was cut off by a soldier blowing a trumpet and beginning an announcement:

“Attention citizens! We’ve received reports of Crimea army stragglers hiding in this town! From this point forth, the Daein army will blockade all points of entry! No one comes or goes without our leave! The harbor is also closed! No ships will be allowed to sail!”

Ike swore under his breath. Titania suddenly appeared in the alleyway behind them. “Ike!” she panted. “Daein troops have-”

“I know,” he sighed. He pointed over his shoulder, trying to act casual. “All we can do is move toward the docks and try not to be discovered.”

“Have you seen Ranulf?” Titania asked tensely.

“Not yet,” he said, but at his words, Ranulf’s heavily cloaked body rounded the turn onto their road. He glanced around furtively. “Wait, here he comes now.” Ike waved and called in a loud whisper, “Ranulf! Over here.”

He hurried toward them. “ _Hoo!_ ” he breathed. “Things sure are heating up, aren’t they?”

Ike nodded. “How are things on your end?”

“Everything’s set. All you need to do is sneak down to the harbor.”

Soren nearly winced. “Because stealth has always worked so well for us in the past.”

Ranulf continued: “You’ll be met there by a man with a dusky pallor. His name is Nasir. You can trust him. I’ve explained your situation, and he’s willing to help. If you can reach his ship safely, he’ll take care of everything and deliver you to Begnion.”

Something seemed to occur to Ike. “Ranulf, aren’t you coming too?”

“I was planning on it, but Daein’s movements have me concerned.” He drew his together eyebrows over his mismatched eyes. “I’ll stay behind and see what’s going on.”

Ike seemed disappointed but nodded. Just then, Soren noticed a young woman walking briskly down the street. She kept looking behind her as if afraid she was being followed. She was heading right for them but wasn’t watching where she was going. Soren didn’t have time to warn the others before she plowed into Ranulf. The force of her stride left them both on the ground.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman exclaimed as Ranulf helped her up.

“ _Damn_ ,” Soren hissed. Ranulf’s hood had fallen back

“I wasn’t watching where I was-” She froze when she realized to whom she was speaking. Ranulf’s ears and markings were fully exposed.

“No, pardon me,” Ranulf began, not yet noticing the danger.

The woman unfroze, yelping and leaping backward. “A su-subhuman!”

Every villager within earshot turned toward the accusation, staring at Ranulf as if dumbfounded. Rhys fell back with Elincia firmly attached to his arm. It seemed they were trying to disappear into the nearest alley. Soren, Ike, and Titania remained, blocking view of their escape. Marcia abandoned her pegasus’s reins and ran to join them. Nephenee sprinted over from the opposite side. Meanwhile the villagers had drawn into a mob, and the Daein soldiers surely noticed.

“Blast!” Ranulf cursed.

At first, the mob acted in fear. “I-it’s true!” One man exclaimed, “A subhuman! How dare you come prowling around here!” But at his words, fear gave way to hate. The force of their shared rage emboldened them.

“Beast!” A young man shoved Ranulf so roughly he backpedaled into the middle of the street. Ranulf kept his arms plastered to his sides. He didn’t change form. He did nothing to stop his attacker. “Y’stinking subhumans need to learn yer place! Human towns are too good for ya!”

A young woman pushed Ranulf in the back. He fell to one knee but stood again. “ _Eww!_ ” the woman squealed. “It’s so hairy! Go on! Scat!”

Soren thought this was idiotic, because, apart from their ears and tail, laguz were no more or less hairy than beorc when in their human shapes. Everyone should have been able to see that with their own eyes.

The crowd continued to push and pull Ranulf, dragging him farther away. Still he did nothing. Someone threw a rotten plum, which splattered across the back of his head. This was apparently the last straw for Ike.

“Dang it!” he spat and lunged forward, but it was too late. The mob closed in front of him, and Ranulf was lost from view. They were a frothing sea of hatred now. Ike gripped the hilt of his sword, and Soren wondered if he would cut down civilians to save his feline friend (and if so, if he should stop him). He hadn’t reached an answer before Lethe and Mordecai intervened. The big man grasped Ike’s shoulder. “Mordecai!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Ike, we must leave,” he rumbled. 

“What? No! We have to help Ranulf.”

“This noise, it brings Daein troops,” Mordecai reasoned.

“That’s why we have to hurry up and-”

“He’ll be fine!” Lethe hissed. “Leave him.”

“Ranulf is strong,” Mordecai assured, “even stronger than me. It’s alright.”

The laguz’s consoling seemed to be working. Ike had released the grip on his sword, and his shoulders sagged. Soren turned his attention back to the mob. He could not see much, but through the gaps in the moving townsfolk, he caught a glimpse of the trumpet-wielding Daein approaching. He was flanked by two knights, but he didn’t appear concerned with the rabble. In fact, he seemed slightly pleased. 

While Soren watched the soldiers, Ike was trying to catch sight of Ranulf again. “Ranulf has no intention of defending himself!” he cried out. “Look, he’s not even changing form! I can’t just stand by and watch as he gets murdered!” Without another word, he tore himself out of Mordecai’s fingers and charged into the crowd.

“Ike! Wait!” called Mordecai.

“Idiot human,” muttered Lethe (but she was wearing a crooked smile).

“Stop! Get out my way! Keep your hands off him!” came Ike’s voice amid the rabble

The other mercenaries followed his lead, but Soren intercepted Marcia before she could charge. Pointing to the alley where Rhys and the princess were hiding, he ordered her: “Take Elincia to the ship before Daein makes their move.” Again, it felt odd to give orders, but Soren took comfort in the fact that he knew he was right. He was the only one thinking reasonably here. “Don’t fly or the dracoknights will see you.”

Marcia hesitated but then nodded and turned around. Seizing her pegasus’s reins, she soon disappeared.

Titania had mounted her horse and taken the lead to support Ike. Nephenee was marching right behind her, and Lethe and Mordecai slipped into the crowd, both holding their hoods closed tight in their hands. Soren followed, making his way easily Mordecai’s wake.

When they reached Ike, they made a circle around Ranulf’s body. Brom and Boyd entered the crowd from the opposite direction and joined them. Soren stood next to Ike, who was being yelled at by a teenager his age. “Who da ya think ya are?” the teen demanded. “Why would a human want to protect some subhuman?” Ike didn’t answer, instead turning so he could kneel over Ranulf. He was unconscious but, Soren assumed, still breathing.

“He’s a friend to this monster. I saw them talking earlier!” cried a proud tattletale. She threw another soft fruit, which splattered against Ike’s back.

He stood and rounded on her. “What’s it to you?”

“Hey, the Crimean royals had subhumans companions, didn’t they? Maybe you’re one of those army guys the Daein troops are searching for!” the teenager called out. The townspeople nodded and murmured their assent. A few were trying to get a better look at Lethe and Mordecai. Suspicion distorted their faces.

Oscar, Kieran, and Mia pushed into the crowd. Both Oscar and Kieran were mounted, and people made way for the horses. Neither were wearing their brightly-colored armor, but all three were carrying weapons, which was damning enough. People started whispering that the boy must be right.

But they were also intimidated, and the mob started to unravel. The passively watching trumpeter was more visible now, and Soren saw his expression twist in glee. Instead of attacking outright, however, he flicked his cloak, and he and his guards returned to the main force.

A townsperson yelled after them: “You there, Daein soldiers! Ho! Come back! There’s some suspicious folk over here!”

Soren was disappointed but not surprised. The Greil Mercenaries hadn’t even had a chance to make a stealthy escape.

Realizing the soldiers would advance any moment, the remaining townsfolk scattered like ants—ants who called encouragement to their enemy. Ike grabbed one by the collar. “Are you mad? Your king was murdered by Daein! And now you’re going to cooperate with them?”

“Well, um…” The man scrambled to get out of Ike’s grasp. His gaze darted from the mercenaries, to the rapidly thinning crowd, to the soldiers pouring through the city gate, and finally to the dracoknights appearing in the sky. His eyes were those of a frightened animal.

The teenager from before came to his rescue. He swung a broom at Ike, who easily avoided the blow, releasing the man as he stepped back. The boy was flanked by three friends who hadn’t yet run. “I heard the king was teamin’ up with those subhumans!” he shouted, “That’s what got him killed!”

“Yeah! That’s right!” agreed a girl beside him. “If we need allies. I’ll take the flesh-and-blood Daein humans over some fanged subhuman freak!”

“Yeah! At least we know what we’re getting! Trust in our own kind!” the boy cried out.

Ike was shaking with rage, but he turned away, calling over his shoulder. “You people are insane!”

Eyeing the approaching soldiers, the young civilians finally fled. Ranulf was semi-conscious now and standing with Mordecai’s help. His face was bruised and swollen, and blood dribbled out of his mouth. Soren glanced around and saw Rolf and Ilyana peeking around the corner of a leather shop. Mist and Rhys were nearby as well, each with staves in hand.

Now he returned his attention to the soldiers, who’d divided into four squadrons. One took the northern streets, one the southern streets, and one was marching straight for them. The dracoknights, which comprised the fourth unit, remained floating where they were. “The soldiers are coming,” Soren whispered urgently. “We’d better make a run for the docks.”

Ike nodded, although he was obviously still distracted by his rage. “I know. This way.” He jogged to the nearest side street with the throng of mercenaries uniting behind him. Ranulf limped swiftly alongside his vassal. Most of the mercenaries were here, but Marcia and Elincia were nowhere to be seen, which was a good sign.

The mercenaries turned onto another street, but Ike pulled to a quick stop when he found their way barred. Everyone practically skidded on their boots, but continuing would have meant impaling themselves on five long, jagged spearheads.

The vigilantes from the tavern were assembled in all their barbaric finery. 

“Where’s the subhuman everyone’s screaming about?” the leader demanded. His helmet was molded to resemble a tiger skull.

“Huzzah!” cheered an old man from the window of a storefront beside them. “The Toha Vigilantes are here! Grab those guys and turn them over to the Daein army! That will prove our allegiance and gain our village favor!”

Soren lobbed a quick fireball at the shop, and the man ducked for cover. The windowsill smoldered for a few moments until Soren extinguished it. (He didn’t think Ike would approve of setting civilian buildings on fire).

The vigilante leader laughed. “If you want subhumans hunted down, I’m your man!” His eyes were pinned on Ranulf and Mordecai, whose hoods hung down their backs.

“This way!” Ike called, pushing the group back the way they’d come. Titania directed them down another side street, and this time their way was unblocked. The vigilantes pursued.

“Split up!” Ike ordered, and Titania led half the mercenaries in a different direction. Soren stayed with Ike and the laguz.

“Ike,” Ranulf groaned.

Ike slowed his pace to speak with him. “Ranulf! Are you all right?”

“Why did you come back?”

“Because some fool was going to lay there and get beaten to death instead of defending himself!” Ike said with an impassioned glower.

“Ah, Ike. What would you have me do? Gallia and Crimea are allies. I cannot jeopardize that by harming these people, no matter what ill they bear me.”

Soren was surprised by his restraint. He was starting to think Ranulf was one of the rare laguz like Caineghis who were more intelligent and civilized than the rest of their brethren.

Ike, however, didn’t seem to understand the prudence of Ranulf’s nonaction. “Even if none of them care two figs for their own country?”

“Even if.” Ranulf shook his head. “They’re citizens of Crimea after all.”

Just then, they heard the hoots and haws of vigilantes coming down another street. Apparently their company had split to head off the mercenaries. It was a good plan.

“I’ll lead them away!” Oscar whispered loudly, slowing his horse so that he lingered at the end of the street.

Ike nodded and kept running. He gripped his sword hilt and gritted his teeth. “Well I’m not Gallian,” he told Ranulf, “so there’s no reason for me to hold anything back!”

“Ike! Listen to me!” He tried to pull his weight off Mordecai but stumbled. “They think that you and I are allies! If you attack, it’s no different than if I do so myself. So…”

“Let me guess.” Ike glanced over his shoulder, but neither Oscar nor the vigilantes were behind them. “You’re telling me to avoid the Daein pursuit, leave the vigilantes alone, get to the docks as soon as possible, find the man named Nasir, and get everyone on his boat. Is that it?”

“Exactly!” Ranulf smiled despite the bruises on his face. “I don’t care what anyone else says, I think you’re pretty bright!”

“Alright, I’ll play along.” Ike ignored the insult. “But mark my words, if they attack, heads will roll!”

“What? Hey! That’s not going to do us any good!”

But Ike wouldn’t hear another word. He kicked in the door of a gardening supply store and ushered the others inside: Soren, Lethe, Ranulf and Mordecai, Ilyana, Mia, and Boyd.

“Soren!” Ike turned to him. “We need to get everyone together!”

“Waiting for everyone will cost us time, of which we have precious little,” he countered. “We should make for the docks now. Those who make it will continue on to Begnion. Those who do not-”

“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” Ike growled.

Soren snapped his mouth shut.

“Uh,” Mia raised her hand to get their attention, “aren’t we missing our employer for one thing? Where’s Princess Elincia?”

Soren opened his mouth to answer, but Ike beat him to it. “Marcia took her ahead of us.” This surprised Soren, who didn’t think he’d been paying attention to anything but Ranulf.

“That means we’re missing Titania, Kieran, Oscar, Nephenee, Brom, Mist, Rolf, Rhys, and…Volke?” Mia counted on her fingers. 

“Volke will get to the ship on his own,” Soren answered her questioning tone.

“Alright,” Ike declared, “split up and search in pairs. You’ve got half an hour. Bring my sister and the others back here!”

“Righto, Boss!” Boyd cheered. He grabbed Ilyana’s arm and ran out the broken door. She seemed stunned, and it was all she could do to keep up.

Lethe and Mordecai formed another pair, leaving Ranulf to rest here. That left three.

“You should stay, Ike, you’re too important to lose,” Soren attempted to advise, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.

“I’m looking for Mist,” he replied flatly.

“Then I will come with you,” Soren compromised. “It will give me a chance to monitor the position of the enemy forces.”

Ike shook his head. “Of course it will.”

“What should I do?” pouted Mia.

“Stay with Ranulf,” Ike ordered. “Get the door boarded up and don’t open it for anyone but us. We’ll be back soon.”

Mia nodded grudgingly.

Ike ran out of the shop, and Soren ran after him.

Ike was in a frenzy, running up and down the empty streets whisper-yelling Mist’s name. When they passed other mercenaries, they quickly exchanged information about who was on their way to the garden shop, who was still out searching, and who was still unaccounted for.

Inevitably, Soren and Ike also crossed paths with Daein scouts and the Toha Vigilantes. But whenever one of them saw or heard the enemy party, they would grab the other and turn on their heels to escape without a fight. A hush had fallen over the port city, and most townsfolk were hidden in their homes and businesses. The majority ignored Soren and Ike, but a few would open their shutters and call to the sky: “Daein guys, they’re over here!” or “Toha Vigilantes, we’ve got ‘em! We’ve got ‘em!”

When this happened, Soren sent a sharp burst of wind at their windows, slamming the shutters and shattering the glass. The people screamed and retreated, while he and Ike ran for their lives.

While they searched, Soren tried to keep track of the time. He knew it was nearly past Ike’s half-hour deadline. “We need to get back,” he said. “Maybe the others already found her.”

Ike ground his teeth in frustration, but then nodded. Soren had been building a mental map of the town, and he led them back by the shortest route, only diverting from the path when they saw soldiers or vigilantes ahead.

They ran and hid when necessary, but before long, they’d made it back to the garden shop. Soren was fairly sure they hadn’t been followed, but as he rounded the last turn, he saw the others hadn’t been so lucky.

An infantry unit of six soldiers had found their hiding spot and were currently locked in combat with Lethe and Mordecai in the street. An arrow shot out of the shop’s front window (which had been shattered since they were last here). It hit one of the soldiers in the arm, giving Lethe the chance to go in for the kill. Ilyana then leapt out of the window and electrocuted one of the remaining soldiers. Mordecai clamped his jaws down another soldier’s face, crushing helmet and skull with a single squeeze. The other didn’t last long.

“Commander Ike!” Ilyana panted, leaning against the wall after her heroic leap.

Everyone poured out of the shop, including Mist who sprinted into Ike’s arms. “Brother!”

“Mist,” he laughed, obviously relieved. “Captain Titania, is everyone accounted for?”

She saluted. “Now that you’re here.”

Ranulf pushed his way to the front. He was standing on his own now and had likely been healed by either Mist or Rhys. “Good luck, Ike! You’ll be fine. As for me, I think I’ll play a little game of cat and mouse with these Daein fools. If we’re lucky, I’ll be able to lead a load of them out of the city and clear the streets for you.” He winked, transformed, and dashed off before Ike could stop him.

“Fine,” Ike grumbled at Ranulf’s disappearing tail.

Somewhere not far away, a soldier shouted: “The Gallian subhuman! After him! Don’t let him get away!”

Apparently resigned to Ranulf’s self-sufficiency, Ike turned his attention to his ragtag troop. “Everyone armed?”

In answer, Boyd spun a small axe in each hand and Rolf raised his bow over his head. Everyone else appeared to boast some sort of weapon, even those who’d left most of their equipment with the merchants.

“Move out for the harbor!” Ike drew his sword. “Try to avoid conflict with the local vigilante group if you can. Our ship is in Bay Six!” 

They charged from their hideout as one. Titania, Oscar, and Kieran trotted in the lead. Ike, Brom, and Nephenee jogged behind them. Mist, Rhys, and Rolf were protected in the center. Then came Soren and Ilyana. Mia and Boyd were behind them, and the two laguz took up the rear. It was a solid formation, and it stretched and collapsed as necessary to slide through the maze of Tohan streets.

By now, Daein had a firm grasp on the city. Units patrolled individual sectors, and dracoknights floated overhead with horns to their lips, broadcasting the mercenaries’ position even though they never joined the battle themselves. All of the townsfolk had hidden themselves away at this point, except for the vigilantes who charged through the streets howling about hunting subhumans.

Avoiding them proved futile. They pursued Lethe and Mordecai mercilessly, and with Ranulf gone, Lethe eventually fought back. When she did, she eviscerated the humans with particular zeal. Ike did not reprimand her, but Mordecai shook his head in disappointment.

Soon after this, the mercenaries were forced to divide again if they wanted any degree of mobility. Ike gave Titania command of the second group, with firm orders that they not divide any further or else risk losing people. Soren agreed it was the best way to use their numbers and the abilities of each individual. Titania’s group took the downtown route to the docks, while Ike’s group went uptown.

After evading the soldiers and decimating the vigilantes, the mercenaries sabotaged the port’s cannons so they could leave the harbor. They were aided by Volke, who conveniently presented himself at just the right moment. Finally they reconvened on the boardwalk, and Soren took a headcount while the others fought their way through the Daein barricade.

At their arrival, Marcia leapt her pegasus from the ship’s deck and flew down to aid her companions (a sure sign Elincia was safely on board). She energetically thrashed the Daeins with her lance, and soon the way to Bay Six was clear.

Their charted vessel was at the dock, the tide was high, the boarding plank was in place, and almost all the ropes had been untied. A few sailors anxiously watched the bloodshed below.

“Onto the ship, quickly!” Ike commanded, and the mercenaries filed up the plank while seagulls picked at the corpses littering the boardwalk. They moved fast, aware that reinforcements would arrive any moment. Ike was the last to board, and as soon as his feet touched the deck, sailors heaved up the plank and cast off the remaining ropes.

Soren, Ike, and Titania gripped the gunwale, watching the dracoknights meander over the rooftops. If Daein was waiting to use the wyvern riders as a last resort, now would be the time. But the commander—a man astride a black dragon instead of a red one—signaled retreat instead. The contingent turned around and flew inland.

The ship creaked as the sailors poled it away from the dock. Ike released a sigh of relief only to have his breath catch in his throat. “It’s him,” he said once he recovered his voice.

It didn’t take long to figure out what he was staring at. The Black Knight had appeared on the boardwalk. He was still encased in ebon armor from head to toe, and he stood with his sword planted between his feet. His hands rested contemplatively on the pommel. He was so close, and yet he made no effort to prevent their leaving.

A blue streak raced between the harbor’s warehouses skidding to a stop a safe distance from the Knight. “You’re not impeding that ship!” Ranulf called, reverting to his human form. “I won’t allow it!”

“One of Gallia’s beast warriors…” came the voice within the expressionless helmet, “I’ve met you once before. Yes…at the castle near the sea of trees.

“From where I’m standing, we’ve actually met twice,” Ranulf replied.

“Oh?”

“I saw you that night!” he cried. “Standing in the light of the full moon. The night you murdered Sir Greil!”

“So you were the one traveling with the beast king… Interesting. By measuring his aide’s strength, I will naturally learn more of the king’s true power.”

Ranulf made a fist and pressed it against his chest. “Hate to tell you this, but my King is not to be measured against the likes of me. He is far beyond that!”

“All the better. Now then, let us begin.” The Black Knight raised his sword, pointing the tip at the cat-man.

Ranulf transformed back into a cat and tensed his haunches, prepared to spring. “No!” Ike called, but there was nothing he could do. Ranulf flew at the armored figure. His agility was impressive to observe as he executed a swift onslaught. And yet, despite how powerful his blows must have been, they didn’t seem to affect the Black Knight at all. He struck back with a single blow and threw Ranulf to the ground. The cat yelped in pain, causing Ike to hiss sympathetically.

But he got back up and resumed his attack, obviously looking for weak points or gaps between the plates of armor. He left a trail of blood behind him now. His efforts were futile. The mercenaries could only watch as the Black Knight moved swiftly—far more swiftly than he should have been able under that armor—and beat and sliced Ranulf to a pulp.

Finally, the end came. Ranulf lowered his belly to the ground and, unable to keep his head up, laid his muzzle between his paws. Soren expected the final blow any second, but the Black Knight didn’t move. “You fight impressively. However, you are no match for me.”

Ranulf didn’t respond.

Just then, a green light, like that of a Heal staff yet much brighter, suddenly glowed over Ranulf’s body. Shaking, he rose to his paws. 

“Hm?” the Black Knight turned around to find what appeared to be a monk standing on the deserted docks. Despite his simple brown smock, he carried a wooden staff with a crimson orb embedded in the intricately carved head—a Physic staff and reason Ranulf was still alive.

“Sephiran?” Ike asked no one in particular. Soren recognized the name from Canteus Castle and wondered if the monk had followed them, and if so, why. 

“Leave this to me,” the monk called to Ranulf.

The cat said something in reply. But the ship was drifting from the dock, and it was becoming hard to hear by the second.

“This knight will not raise his hand to me. Correct?” the monk said, raising his voice as he addressed the Black Knight.

The knight said nothing, but neither did he move.

“Go now,” the monk urged, “and quickly!”

Ranulf said something more, apparently conceding to the monk’s advice. A moment later, he ran off with only a slight limp.

Soren returned his gaze to the monk, who intrigued him in an ominous way. He and the knight stared at each other for a few moments, and then, without saying anything, walked down different streets into the city proper.

“Oh, that was so awful!” Elincia exclaimed when they were gone, making clear the fact that she’d just watched the whole fight. “Poor Ranulf!” She threw her arms around Ike, who patted her back awkwardly. After a couple seconds, Elincia seemed to realize the inappropriateness of her behavior and released him in a hasty retreat.

“What are we still doing here? Push off immediately!” a commanding voice descended on the deck. The crew had frozen in their tracks to watch the fight, but now they leapt into action.

Soren turned his full attention to the captain. He remembered the name Ranulf had used: Nasir. But other than that, he’d given them almost no information about the man or why he was willing to help them.

He had dark skin and light, turquoise hair, which made a striking combination. His shrewd gray eyes seemed old, although his face lacked wrinkles almost entirely—strange for a seafarer at the mercy of the wind and sun. He was clean-shaven, with a straight but delicate nose, high cheekbones, and generally regal features. He could have passed for a nobleman if not for his clothes, which were those of a simple merchant sailor.

Soren, however, didn’t care about the captain’s age, features, or bearing. Although he tried to distract himself with these details, what Soren noticed immediately and could not get out of his mind was the red, tattoo-like mark at the center of this man’s forehead.

In his years of travel, Soren had never seen nor heard of another person with a mark like his. He tried to tell himself they weren’t the same—Nasir’s mark was shaped like a dot below a spikey crown, or perhaps sunrays. It was entirely different than the stricken zigzag Soren bore. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t unusual for pirates and seafaring folk to tattoo themselves with symbols of their adventures. He tried to tell himself it was foolish to hope. But he did hope. He hoped this stranger would provide some clue to Soren’s identity. And he also feared it.

While he and the others examined Nasir, Nasir examined them in return. Soren resisted the urge to fidget under the captain’s penetrating gaze, which dwelled on him far longer than he would have liked. Fear replaced hope entirely, and Soren suddenly felt trapped on this ship. Tearing his eyes away, he turned around to watch Port Toha grow smaller and smaller. Behind him, Ike and Elincia exchanged pleasantries with the strange man, but Soren could hardly listen.


	25. CHAPTER 25: AT SEA

“It is likely Daein is now focusing its attention on preparing a force to invade Gallia,” Soren proposed in an even tone. “However, King Ashnard does not strike me as someone who likes to leave loose ends.” He looked pointedly at the princess, who wrung her hands in distress.

“Daein knows Princess Elincia boarded our ship. Do you think we should expect opposition on our route to Begnion?” Titania rubbed her chin and glanced at the open sky and water behind them. She’d developed a nervous crease between her eyes from staring at the horizon like this for six weeks.

“Of course you should expect an approaching altercation, but not from Daein,” Nasir interjected calmly. “We have just passed the midpoint of our trip.” He spun the map toward himself and touched his finger to the southern coast of Gallia, where he and two of his crew had just picked up a resupply from Caineghis “If we have not seen a ship bearing Daein colors yet, I would warrant we are not about to.”

“Who would you expect to attack us then?” Ike asked.

Soren answered, cutting Nasir off: “I believe the captain means the flying corsairs.” He rotated the map toward Ike and placed his finger on the southern isles. “We are nearing the island nations of the bird laguz.”

“Indeed.” Nasir nodded. He didn’t seem bothered by Soren’s intervention.

“Well either way—” Ike shrugged “—the only thing we can do now is sail. As straight and as fast as we can.” He grinned and pointed with his whole arm toward the horizon opposite his deputy’s worried glances. Titania seemed immediately relieved, as if all she’d needed to alleviate her concerns was Ike’s overconfidence.

“Leave the sailing to my crew,” Nasir told Ike. “We will do all in our power to deliver you to your destination.”

“I recommend we begin a twenty-four-hour watch as early as next week,” Soren said. “I hear the channel between Phoenicis and Goldoa is the most dangerous.” He glanced at Nasir, to see if he would contradict or agree with him.

“Your young adviser has heard correctly,” Nasir confirmed. “Many ships are lost there.”

“Like I said, as straight and fast as we can!” Ike replied, but the grin was gone from his face and his bravado had a touch of nervousness. “Meeting adjourned.”

Nasir rolled up the map and returned to his cabin, which was below the aft deck (where they were currently standing). Titania walked to the gunwale and sighed. Ike walked over to Mist, who’d been waiting for the meeting to end so she could speak with him. Her face was pinched with worry. 

Soren walked until he stood beside the helmsman and surveyed the mercenaries lounging around the main deck. There was hardly a smile among them. Weeks of confinement had robbed them of their vivacity, and the potential of a Daein pursuit, a pirate ambush, or an ill reception in Begnion loomed over them, filling the ship with anxiety. Only the inanely cheery types like Rolf or the ceaselessly energetic like Kieran were spared the gloom, but even they seemed more subdued than usual. Everyone was hungrier and thirstier than they were accustomed, since all supplies were rationed. They were also tired from sleeping in hammocks in crowded bunkrooms that had once been storage bays. (This was a merchant vessel after all, not a passenger ship.) The sun was hot, but the nights were cold. The sea was dull, and there was nowhere to go on the small ship. It was hard to find privacy, and Soren had yet to find a place he could be alone. (Although Volke must have somehow managed it—he’d rarely been seen since they left Toha.)

The laguz were frustrated, and Lethe complained incessantly that she would lose her mind if she couldn’t run more than the length of the middeck. The two laguz were in their shifted forms now, running through their exercises while the other mercenaries kept clear. In another hour or two it would be time to exercise the horses in a similar way.

Soren passed his gaze over the rest of the passengers. Ilyana was leaning against the gunwale on the portside while Aimee patted her back. The small rations disagreed with Ilyana’s appetite, and she hardly moved each day.

The man name Zihark—a swordsman they had picked up in Toha—was watching Lethe and Mordecai run. Soren hadn’t spoken more than a few words with the new recruit, but he knew from gossip that he had an unhealthy obsession with laguz. Meeting Lethe and Mordecai was the reason he’d been so eager to join them. Apparently he’d fought alongside them in Toha and boarded their ship without even knowing their mission or destination. Soren thought this demonstrated an appalling lack of reason or good judgement.

Farther down the deck, Boyd and Rolf were arguing about something. Oscar was trying to pacify them, to little effect. This had become a daily occurrence in the past weeks, and everyone was sick of hearing it.

Marcia was with a crewman in the crow’s nest. She clearly had no fear of heights, and she was peering through the sailor’s telescope while her pegasus flew in circles around the ship like a giant seagull.

And finally, in the bow, Mia was sparring with Nephenee while Brom, Jorge, and Daniel watched. The two militiamen had been homesick since leaving Crimea, and Soren wondered if they regretted signing up for this foolish endeavor.

The merchant brothers, on the other hand, seemed spared the ship’s hardships. They comforted and entertained the others, which included teaching everyone a strategy game they liked to play. This was a good diversion, but there was only one gameboard so only two could play at a time. Some of the mercenaries liked to watch, but Soren couldn’t stand it. He hated that he had to hold his tongue when he saw the players making the wrong move, and he was especially annoyed when it worked out for the player anyway because their opponent was too blind to see the opportunity the mistake presented. That being said, he did enjoy playing.

As for Mia, she’d been sparring like this constantly since leaving Toha. She fought out on the deck every day, rain or shine, whether she had an opponent or not. Sometimes members of Nasir’s crew would spar with her—out of curiosity or pity, Soren did not know. Few of them could handle a sword, and Mia showed no mercy.

“Nasir!” Ike’s voice rose in irritation, jogging Soren from his thoughts. “What’s the big idea, eavesdropping on us like that?”

Soren looked down to see Nasir leaning against the wall just outside his cabin entrance. His arms were crossed, and he seemed unconcerned with Ike’s accusation. Ike and Mist had been talking about something, but Soren hadn’t been listening. Contrary to Ike’s outrage, however, it was difficult to avoid eavesdropping on the crowded ship. So Soren felt no shame listening to them now.

“How do you find sailing? Have you gotten sick at all?” Nasir asked, blatantly changing the subject.

“We’re fine.” Ike sighed. He wasn’t someone who stayed angry long (not about little things at least). “But, hey, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Nasir waited curiously, and Ike and Mist took a couple steps forward so they could have a real conversation. “Answer a question for me, would you?” Ike began. “Why are you here? Why do you associate with the laguz?” He gestured to the east, where the coast of Gallia would be turning into the coast of Goldoa just beyond their sight.

It was a fair question. Soren had wondered himself, but he’d never broached the subject—just as he hadn’t dared ask about the strange marks they shared. He only spoke to the captain during the daily meetings, and Ike and Titania were always present.

“Why?” Nasir repeated as if amused by the question. “Besides the obvious financial benefits, I suppose I do so because I am one.”

Soren had known it was a possibility, but the revelation still shook him. Nasir’s mark was merely part of his laguz markings. They weren’t the same after all. Lowering his head slightly, Soren glanced at the beorc sailor beside him. There was no way the helmsman couldn’t hear the conversation below, and yet he kept his eyes on the horizon and didn’t show any sign of surprise. Soren realized the crew must know the truth and yet not care. 

“What?” Mist laughed hesitantly. “No, you’re not a laguz! I don’t see any tail or anything!”

Nasir replied as calmly as ever: “Because I’ve chosen to live among beorc, I’ve taken certain steps to make sure I’m not recognized. I’ve had to change my attire, my feeding habits.” He raised his palms simply. “I’ve done many things.”

“Why would you do that?” Ike asked in amazement. 

“Laguz cannot survive in isolation, nor can beorc. If both races are to thrive, they must learn to coexist.” His voice was solemn. “I have spent many years searching for a way to make this happen.”

Nasir, Ike, and Mist continued to converse, but Soren backed away. He didn’t want to hear anymore, and he didn’t want Ike to accuse him of eavesdropping too. He walked all the way to the stern, passing Titania who didn’t turn at the sound of his steps.

Staring at the ship’s wake, he tried to order his thoughts. Nasir’s identity held no clues to Soren’s own. The marks were meaningless. He was surprised by his disappointment, but he also felt a certain security he’d missed since meeting the sea captain. _No one knows me,_ he thought and found it comforting. _No one knows me._

Weeks passed in fluid monotony. Once they entered the Gazaleah Channel, they often saw pale mountain peaks in the north. Their ship was following the Goldoan coast but couldn’t go ashore. It was the home of the dragons—the most secretive and self-isolating of laguz tribes. Despite his contempt for the ship, Soren couldn’t complain about being unable to land. He would rather be stuck at sea with mostly beorc than in a land of half-lizard monstrosities.

Soren turned his eyes away from the mountains toward the western horizon astern of the ship. It was early still, and there was no sun in that hemisphere of the sky, just clouds and waves.

“Soren are you even listening?” Titania asked, exasperated.

Realizing he’d been staring over her shoulder, Soren adjusted his gaze to her face. “Of course,” he replied, “you were telling me that Ike and Nasir found a stowaway aboard who has been hiding and stealing from us for eight weeks. A rather remarkable feat I suppose. That must be why our strange captain has not thrown the little urchin into the sea.” Soren knew he was being unfair. The boy was twelve years old, and Soren hadn’t been any less of a vagrant at that age. He could understand the kid’s desperation.

“Well, he has agreed to fight alongside us and remain with our company even when we land in Begnion,” Titania reported.

“Lucky us,” he said dryly, making a mental note to talk to Ike about hiring every lost soul he came across. His eyes wandered back to the clouds, and he berated himself for being so easily distracted. Perhaps the time imprisoned on this boat was slowing his wits. But then he realized what had been drawing his attention: black dots had appeared above the horizon. “It would seem the kid—Sothe was his name?—will be able to prove himself sooner than expected.”

Titania was obviously confused, but when Soren pointed, she whipped around. “Ravens!” she declared, as if her fears had been realized.

Without another word, they ran to find Ike. Luckily he was on deck, speaking with Nasir. Apparently the sea captain had also spotted the ravens, and Ike was following his finger with squinted eyes. “Are those _birds_? If they are, they must be huge!”

“Those are laguz, Ike,” Titania explained.

“Ravens from Kilvas,” Soren reported more accurately. “Their black wings are an ill omen for all who see them.”

“Titania, Soren, you noticed them coming as well?” Ike asked.

“Yes,” Titania answered, “Soren and I saw them when we were discussing our plans from the aft decks.”

“I’d heard stories, but…” Ike smiled. “They’re really flying! Wow...”

“We’re still out of their range, but airborne foes can be especially troublesome.” Nasir frowned, and it was the first time Soren had seen him not completely at ease. “I’d prefer to avoid them altogether. Let’s see if we can outrun them.” He walked briskly toward the aft deck, calling and waving to the helmsman.

The ship creaked as it adjusted course, and the sailors became a flurry of activity under Nasir’s command. Meanwhile Soren, Ike, Titania, and the other mercenaries tried to stay out of their way. They watched the birds grow closer, even as the ship picked up speed.

The mountains and rocky cliffs of Goldoa were not so distant anymore. In fact, they appeared dangerously close. Soren wondered for a moment if Nasir was about to wreck them. But then their trajectory evened out. They ran parallel to the coast, and the ship lurched with a sudden burst of speed. It appeared Nasir had directed them into a sweet spot of wind and current. If Nasir knew these waters so well, Soren wondered why they hadn’t taken this course from the beginning.

“From what I’ve been told,” Titania said after a long silence, “the flying corsairs of Kilvas and Phoenicis are far crueler than any beast laguz.” She sounded disappointed that not all laguz were furry kittens.

“Winged pirates.” Ike shook his head with an awestruck half-grin. But then the grin fell. “How am I supposed to fight against that?”

Neither was able to answer him (although Soren for one was composing a practical answer), because in that moment, the entire ship jarred violently. The hull shuddered, and there was an enormous grating sound all around them. Then the deck pitched, and everyone standing on it lost their balance and fell down. When Soren picked himself up again, he could tell the boat had come to a complete stop. The wind filled the sails, causing the masts to groan unhappily, but the boat wouldn’t budge.

“Wh-what was that!” Ike demanded, on his feet in an instant.

“ _Oof._ ” Titania rubbed her bruised elbow. “It felt like we hit something.”

“Blast!” Nasir leapt to his feet in anger. He ran to the shoreward gunwale. “We’ve run aground! We must be caught on a reef!” He turned to the crewmen who were frantically assembling before him. “Move it lads! Get the ship free!”

Soren, on the other hand, walked resignedly to the seaward gunwale. The dark spots on the horizon were rapidly growing larger. This was a trap. The ravens knew these waters better than any beorc (or laguz) sailor. They’d followed the ship just close enough to be spotted. Then they’d taken their time, dangling the possibility of escape. Trying to catch the wind and current coming around the Goldoan cape caused imprudent ships to run into the reefs—and Nasir had acted imprudently indeed. The ravens from Kilvas were infamous for their cunning, but Soren hadn’t believed it until now.

“Ike.” Soren approached his commander, who was currently running to and fro with Nasir’s crewmen, playing at being a sailor in a desperate attempt to help. “The crows are coming.”

“Damn!” Ike stopped in his tracks to face the incoming crows. “Pull everyone together,” he yelled to Titania, “Looks like we’re in for a fight!”

She saluted and dashed belowdecks.

The sailors, merchants, and princess barricaded themselves belowdecks, while the mercenaries assembled above. Even Volke and the new kid were deployed. Soren had little doubt Volke could defend himself, but he was less certain about the stowaway. Sothe carried an odd array of knives in the lining of his ragged clothes, which Rolf had somehow convinced him to show off the other day. He claimed to be able to fight and had been able to hit targets consistently, but that was entirely different than a real battle—especially one against flying laguz. Apparently Ike thought so too, because he tried to convince him to stay below. But the scrawny, soft-spoken boy insisted he would help defend ‘Commander Ike’ from any foe. (Once again, Soren marveled at his friend’s inexplicable magnetism).

The Kilvan pirates surrounded the immobilized ship, apparently in no rush to take the prize. They jeered, laughed, and cawed. Some were transformed, with large black beaks that seemed as capable of crushing a man’s arm as impaling him or gouging out his eyes. They were also armed with long, hooked talons that looked as sharp as sickles. Others were in their human forms and might have passed as normal dark-haired, dark-eyed beorc, if not for their laguz markings and the enormous black wings that suspended them above the waves.

Their leader hover by the prow. His arms were crossed. “Predictable humans,” he called down to them, “without fail, you always sail right into our trap.” Neither Ike nor any of the mercenaries rose to the taunt. With a bored roll of his head, the Kilvan leader signaled directions to his second in command and swooped away from the ship. Apparently he was going to leave the work to his flying pirate crew.

“Soren!” Ike turned to him. “Do we have a strategy?” _And apparently Ike is going to leave the work to me,_ he thought, but he didn’t mind. It was his job as Ike’s advisor.

“There is not much we can do. Stay on the deck. Use long-range weapons. I’ve done some research in the past. All members of the bird tribes are vulnerable to wind magic, as you know, and I think it’s safe to assume they are as susceptible to arrows as any other flyer. We must reserve energy in our attacks. The crows can exhaust us by moving in and out of range. They can also pass easily over our heads, so no one is safe. We must pay particular attention to our weaker fighters and healers. Your sister may be at some risk. I suggest you place her at the center of a formation composed of our stronger hands. She will not be completely safe, but at least then the crows may be killed before they can fly away with her or gut her where she-.”

“That’s enough, Soren,” Ike warned with a glare. He snapped his mouth shut, and Ike’s expression softened. “And thanks.”

Soren nodded once, not quite sure what warranted the gratitude.

Ike began shouting orders, putting Soren’s plan into action. The Kilvans flew into a raiding formation, and any who’d not yet transformed did so now. Then they dove upon the ship, shrieking as they attacked.

Soren knew his magic would be key in this battle, so he stuck his fingers between the pages of Wind and Elwind and concentrated on the incantations he knew so well. He targeted the ravens who flew beyond the reach of his comrades’ swords and lances, and he made each spell count.

This was the first time he’d faced a laguz opponent (his spat with Mordecai aside), but he found he felt no thrill. _One less thieving, murdering subhuman in the world_ , he tried to tell himself as another raven dropped from the sky in a cloud of feathers and blood. But he didn’t actually feel the malice he pretended.

Rather, what motivated him to fight harder was the knowledge that he could be particularly useful to Ike in this battle. The feeling was a warm rush, and it focused his mind and his senses. It made him feel stronger, more daring, more confident. Wounds felt less painful, and mistakes less agonizing. He conducted the winds as if they were music and he a maestro. If Nasir’s crew hadn’t carefully furled the sails, they would have been cut to smithereens.

His only restraint was for Marcia, whose pegasus darted through the air as she fought the ravens hand-to-hand (or, rather, lance-to-talon). It wouldn’t do to accidentally knock her or her steed out of the air, so he concentrated on keeping the deadly gales away from them.

Meanwhile, a green speck was growing larger over the western sea, and Soren kept an eye on it even while battling the ravens. When it became apparent the speck was in fact a wyvern—and therefore a Daein soldier—Soren raced to report this discovery to Ike, who was fighting a particularly tenacious crow at the base of the main mast. “Ike!” he called. “You’ll want to take a look at this!”

Ike looked away for only a moment, but it was enough for the pirate to scrape the tip of their talons across his temple and cheek. He twisted with the attack, travelling with the raven’s momentum and keeping the wound relatively shallow. Roaring angrily, his mind and body were back in the fight in an instant.

Kicking himself for distracting his friend, Soren prepared an Elwind spell to help him. But before he could finish the incantation, Brom came from behind and embedded his axe in the bird’s head. They dropped, reverting before they hit the deck. The axe blade now protruded from a human skull.

“We have a Daein rider coming in from the west!” Soren pointed while Ike and Brom caught their breath.

This dracoknight was unusually colored. The wyvern had glittering emerald scales instead of the common red, and the rider wore armor painted a strawberry hue instead of the traditional Daein black. Soren had heard rare-colored wyverns were usually gifted to nobles or military leaders, and he knew the only exceptions to the army uniform were for similar elites. The dracoknight approaching them now was likely an important person: an exalted captain, a member of the royal family, or another noble personage.

And yet, they appeared to be traveling without an escort. And to have followed them this far from Crimea was an incredible feat. Surely they hadn’t dared land in Gallia or Goldoa, so this rider must have survived only by resting and subsisting on the coastal islands. Why would they make such a difficult journey alone?

Soren wanted to find out, which was the only reason he didn’t blast the dracoknight out of the sky. Soon they were close enough to see clearly: a fresh-faced young woman with a long red ponytail and fiery eyes.

“You!” she pointed an accusing finger at Ike while her wyvern beat its wings, holding her above the open water. “Why are you lollygagging about?”

Soren and Ike exchanged glances. It wasn’t the greeting either of them had expected. The wyvern plunged forward, landing on the deck, and the woman immediately leapt off. She strode proudly toward Ike, apparently unfazed by the battle because she left her axe strapped to the saddle.

“Who are-” Ike tried to ask.

“I’m Jill Fizzart, a wyvern rider of Daein, attached to Commander Haar’s battalion,” she announced, stopping in front of him with a wide stance. “I offer a truce! I cannot sit by and allow a human vessel to be attacked by subhuman degenerates! I will fight with you!”

Ike clearly disliked her choice of words, and they immediately fell to arguing. But Soren turned his attention back to the battle. Even with that headwound, Ike could handle her if she decided to attack. And if she insisted on helping them, Soren wasn’t going to complain.

Upon the conclusion of their argument, Jill joined Marcia in the sky. They fought well together and didn’t stray far. Both steeds seemed to be waning, and when they couldn’t fly anymore, they landed and fought on the deck. Apparently Jill understood the shelf of land only yards away was off-limits—as did the ravens who wouldn’t set foot there, even when injured and barely able to stay aloft.

Reinforcements continued to flap across the ocean. Evidently the pirates they’d been fighting were merely the fastest in the crew. The mercenaries were quickly becoming overwhelmed. Their numbers thinned, and the deck became less crowded, even with the addition of the wyvern and pegasus. As far as Soren could tell, no one had died yet, but when they were too injured to continue fighting, they retreated belowdecks. Unable to guarantee Rhys and Mist’s safety, Ike had ordered them below. They were now without healers. 

Soren was hurt, but he refused to retreat—not when his magic was actually making a difference. He held his spell book in his nondominant hand, because the other had been crushed in a pirate’s beak. He was limping around the deck thanks to a bite on his leg, and his back and head were bruised from falling on the deck when the bird had lifted and dropped him. He was dizzy, but not seriously concussed. He could keep going.

Finally, the reinforcements ceased appearing. The raven leader himself joined the fray, obviously frustrated with his crew. But he was too late to turn the tides. The mercenaries routed them all. Soren finally stopped chanting, and the sound of wind in his ears faded to a strange sort of silence. He listened to water lap against the ship and splash against the stone cliffs. The terns squawked reproachfully from their roosts, offended by the battle on their doorstep.

“Is everyone all right?” Ike called.

“I’ll check on injuries,” Soren offered. He went below, hardly making it down the ladder with one arm and leg. Rhys helped him from there, sitting him down and tending his injuries.

Although he obviously wanted to focus on what he was doing, he consented to answering Soren’s questions about casualties at the same time. No lives or limbs had been lost, although some had been grievously injured and had not yet regained consciousness. Rhys said he was confident they would.

By the time Soren could make his report to Ike, many people had spilled back onto the deck and were making themselves useful pushing laguz corpses over the side. Meanwhile Nasir and his crew had resumed their efforts to dislodge the ship. 

“Those crows make fierce opponents.” Titania gave the last corpse a respectful nod before Kieran heaved it over the gunwale.

“Indeed,” the captain said, joining them.

Ike turned to him. “Nasir, how’s the ship?”

He shook his head. “Completely immobilized. We can’t shake free of this reef. Perhaps the tides will lift us, but I fear damage in the meantime.”

Ike growled in frustration. “I feel useless just waiting around here. There has to be something I can do to help.” His gaze turned to the Goldoan cliffs.

Noticing this, Nasir frowned and gave him a warning look. “For now, we must sit tight. Perhaps we will free ourselves, or another ship will come along who can help.” He inclined his head slightly. “If you’ll excuse me.” He returned to his crewmen, who were trying to push them free with long poles. Some stabbed at the reef while others prodded the cliffs, trying to force them into deeper water. 

Ike crossed his arms and watched. Or perhaps he was staring at the land just out of reach. The cliffs plateaued at a height almost level with the deck of their ship, and beyond the rocky clearing grew dense trees and shrubs. Beyond these the cliffs sprouted again, turning into the jut of a mountain.

Soren had no doubt Ike remembered the rule against going ashore, but he also knew this was far too tempting a situation. It was as if they’d pulled up to an inviting wharf, a place where they could stretch their legs and perhaps find water and food. The odds of accidentally running into a native seemed unlikely, so he didn’t try to stop him.

While Nasir and the crew were distracted, Ike unlatched the long gangplank, swung it out, and cranked it up so the end came to rest on the lip of the cliff just a few feet higher than the deck. Then he locked it in place and walked slowly across, with arms spread wide for balance.

He’d just made it to land when Mist noticed. She ran to the gunwale. “Hey! Ike!” she yelled, “Where are you going? Should you be leaving the ship?”

“Nothing is getting done just sitting around here,” Ike replied crossly, “I want to go ashore and see what I can see.”

By now everyone had noticed Ike’s transgression. Nasir ran to join Mist. He looked worried, and even a little frightened. “What? Hold on, Ike! You can’t… That’s-” He froze when he saw three imposing figures emerge from the woods.

“Ah! Ike! Behind you!” Mist shouted in alarm.

“You there! What are you doing?” one of the strangers demanded.

“Huh?” was Ike’s eloquent response.

All three men had dark skin and red-orange hair cropped close to the scalp. They were tall and broad-shouldered like tigers, but without tails or furry ears. In fact, the only thing that marked them as laguz were the ornate red markings on their faces and arms. Soren knew they had to be dragons.

He regretted not stopping Ike. He had doubted the Goldoan border was as secure as Caineghis or Nasir claimed, but apparently, it was. That or they were simply unlucky, and the battle had drawn the attention of some passersby.

Nasir retreated, muttering to himself: “This could be trouble…” Without another word, he disappeared into the crowd. Soren had half a mind to go after him. But Ike could be in danger, so he stayed.

“This is Goldoan territory. Outsiders are not permitted,” another of the dragons warned.

“No, wait.” Ike held up his hands innocently. “You don’t understand. Our ship has run aground. There’s nothing we can do. We’re _stuck_ here.”

“Then return to your ship. What happens to beorc is none of our affair,” the third announced.

Ike took a step back, but his hands dropped and turned into fists. The guards were angry, but now Ike was too. He took two steps toward the last one to speak. “That’s ridiculous. You’re being completely-”

“You have been warned. You will not be warned a second time,” the first growled.

Suddenly, all three laguz transformed in unison. Standing before Ike now—or rather towering over him—were three crimson dragons. Some of their scales were as small and brilliant as rubies. Others were as large as shields.

“Hey!” Ike exclaimed indignantly. He didn’t seem nearly as terrified as he should have been.

“Cease this at once!” came an authoritative, yet young-sounding voice. “What do you think you’re doing?” The speaker emerged from among the trees. He was indeed young— probably Ike’s age. But he was dressed finely and guarded by another red-haired giant.

“My-my Lord Prince,” one of the dragons said. The voice was strange coming from the lips of a huge reptilian beast. The three instantly reverted and retreated, heads bent. If the guard’s exclamation was true, this boy was a member of the Goldoan royal family: a black dragon and one of the most powerful beings in Tellius. This also meant he was far older than he appeared.

Ike and the prince began speaking, and Soren wanted a better look. He held out an expectant hand to a crewmember with a spyglass, and he reluctantly gave it up. Peering closely, Soren’s first thought was that the dragon prince looked remarkably familiar. But his mind couldn’t conjure a matching face.

The boy had dark skin, scarlet eyes, and chin-length, green-black hair whose bangs cut across his eyebrows. But when he smiled, he flicked them away a moment, and Soren saw the flash of a red symbol at the center of his forehead. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Soren remembered when he used to cut his hair like that, and he realized why the boy looked familiar. _The brow, the cheeks, the chin_ … He lowered the spyglass to stare with his own eyes. The Dragon Prince was slightly taller, but their frames were similar.

Soren took a couple steps away from the gunwale. He shook his head, telling himself he was being an idiot. He was looking at another person like Nasir, whose laguz mark was coincidentally located in the same position as Soren’s birthmark. A human body had only so much canvas. This person happened to be a skinny kid, and that was enough for Soren to see similarities where they were none. _Am I so desperate for meaning that I will search for it in the face of any stranger?_ he thought to himself, and when he glanced back up at the boy on the cliff, he didn’t seem familiar at all.

His shock and confusion faded, but Soren still didn’t feel well. Wondering if he had a concussion from the drop earlier, he found himself following Nasir’s lead and heading belowdecks.

He watched Ike and prince exchange pleasantries from a window on the portside. The scene was soundless, and now that he was looking upward, part of it was blocked by a stone outcropping. But from what he could tell, the prince seemed hospitable; he and Ike shook hands.

A black shape suddenly leapt at Soren, making him jump and realize how tense he’d become. But it was only a cat, which now rubbed its head and ears against his leg. He jerked his foot to remove the animal. “Shoo!”

The cat meowed reproachfully and strutted away.

“Come, Sedha,” said a voice behind him, and Soren spun around. There stood Nasir, the cat now in his arms. Its tail rolled rhythmically with his strokes. “I do not appreciate it when my cat is kicked.”

“Why do you have a cat on a ship anyway?” He wasn’t about to apologize.

“Sedha is the reason this is a clean, rat-free vessel. She’s a valuable member of the crew,” Nasir explained, “She stays in the lower holds for the most part, but perhaps she sensed a varmint hiding in here.”

“Say that again,” Soren growled.

“Then again, perhaps she just likes you,” Nasir added with a sly smile, and he realized he’d fallen for the bait by letting his words rile him.

He crossed his arms. “Then I am flattered she found my leg so pleasurable. I’m just glad Lethe never finds herself thus acquainted with it.”

Nasir frowned. “You insult her greatly to compare her to a common cat. She would kill you were she to hear what you have just said.”

Soren shrugged. “That’s right, because you are a subhuman yourself? You’re personally offended.” Nasir said nothing, letting the cat spring from his grasp. Soren continued: “But you are not a beast or a bird. I was confused at first, but now your lack of laguz traits makes sense. You are a dragon, a bloodless lizard of Goldoa.”

Nasir replied simply: “Not of Goldoa. Not anymore.”

They were silent for a few seconds, glaring at one another. When it was clear Nasir wasn’t going to defend himself, Soren resumed his attack. “Not Goldoan? Is that why you’re cowering down here in the dark? Are you afraid to be spotted by your old scaly friends? What sort of trouble are you in?”

Nasir’s reply came cool and calm from his lips: “And what trouble do you fancy yourself to be in? Need I point out that you have also come to—as how you’ve so aptly said—cower in the dark?”

Soren had no response, but after a moment, he didn’t need one. With a jarring lurch and shudder, the entire boat came free of the reef. Soren pressed his face to the window in confusion. Outside he could see three dragons sloshing through the water.

“They’ve pushed the ship off the reef!” Nasir noted. “I hope there was no damage to our rudder.” Their previous conversation seemed never to have occurred. “I must assess the situation. We need to get underway.” He left the cabin, but not before hesitating a moment and seeming to gather himself before heading out.

Soren decided Nasir was definitely hiding something.

The voyage continued, and the mercenaries’ moods brightened considerably thanks to the fresh food and water gifted by the Goldoan prince. Nasir behaved normally, and there was no sign of more crows on the horizon.

For a little while, the newcomer, Jill Fizzart, raged about the immorality and shame of relying on subhuman aide and companionship. Then she’d demanded they turn the ship around and take Elincia back to Crimea, where she could be taken into custody and facilitate the regime change. Everyone on the ship rolled their eyes or completely ignored her. Lethe and Mordecai even refrained from attacking her. Perhaps realizing she wasn’t making any friends, she quickly gave up her ravings and became tight-lipped and wide-eyed.

As soon as she changed her attitude, the others had behaved kindly to her. Mist healed the wounds she’d received in battle and asked to pet her wyvern. Boyd complimented her axe skills, and Marcia her flying. Then Ike asked to hear her story, and the pair sat down for a long time.

Soren was not party to this meeting, but when he saw her later, walking and talking among the mercenaries as if she belonged as much as any of them, he sought an explanation from Titania.

“Ike offered to give her supplies and let her go back to Daein—as long as she didn’t try to take Princess Elincia with her of course,” she explained with a laugh. “When she didn’t jump at that offer… Well, you know how Ike is. He offered to let her stay instead. Apparently she’s thinking about it.”

Although this sounded exactly like something Ike would do, Soren couldn’t accept it. He immediately marched off to find him, deciding it was time to give the advice he should have given ages ago:

“It is unbelievably foolish to extend a friendly hand to every wayward traveler you meet!” he reprimanded the young commander. “Greil took great care in selecting who he allowed to be a member of this company. There are those you can trust to watch your back in battle, and those you cannot. A Daein solider—and a Daein _noble_ at that—belongs in the latter category! She is clearly a spy.”

Ike looked unconvinced. “Are you done?”

“One more thing,” Soren added, not bothering to hide his agitation. “I have recently learned that both the little stowaway Sothe and that supposedly laguz-loving man Zihark are also Daein-born. Does that not seem concerning to you? They owe us no loyalty. They could even be Daein agents, placed on our ship to learn our plans and report back to their commanders.”

Ike said nothing.

“Now I am finished,” Soren said flatly.

“Good.” Ike smiled easily. “So you think Daein sent three spies after us, because…one might not have been enough?”

Soren frowned.

“And rather than having Sothe kill Princess Elincia a month ago when we didn’t even know he was here, his commanders had him hide half-starving in a barrel until he was found?”

Still Soren said nothing. Ike wasn’t wrong to point these things out, but that didn’t mean he was right either.

“And Jill…she’s waiting to earn our trust before taking out the princess?”

“Yes, that’s exactly-” Soren began, but Ike cut him off by gesturing to where Jill and Elincia were chatting at the bow of the ship. Jill seemed to be miming something, and Elincia laughed with a delicate hand to her mouth. Jill made a face as if surprised and embarrassed that her joke had succeeded, and she rubbed the back of her neck, laughing too.

“If all Ashnard wants to do is tie up loose ends, and if Jill is the world’s youngest wyvern-riding assassin, why is Princess Elincia still alive?”

Soren shook his head. “You’re not listening, Ike. I have no evidence that these two are not to be trusted. Perhaps they are telling the truth after all. But the possibility is just too great. There is no strategic advantage for this risk.”

Ike became suddenly thoughtful. “Maybe not, but then again, maybe there will be. We don’t know what they’re capable of yet. And even if there’s no advantage at all, I still want to help them.”

“Help them?” Soren repeated.

Ike gave a small smile. “Yes, help them. Did you know Sothe is looking for someone? Sounds like she’s the only family he has and she disappeared. He thinks she might be in Begnion, so he risked his life stowing away on Nasir’s ship. I told him he could come with us, and if he doesn’t find her, he can stay with us. Maybe we’ll cross paths before the end. And if not, we can be his family instead. I know that’s what Father would have done…”

“Ike…”

“And Jill, she disobeyed her commander’s orders to chase after us. That commander was her childhood friend, but she defied him anyway. She couldn’t stand that Daein let us get away, so she took matters into her own hands. She knows nothing about King Ashnard’s plans, and she thought capturing Princess Elincia would solidify his victory and bring peace to Crimea. That’s what she wants: for the fighting to end. She’s been brainwashed by Daein, and yet she still values that above all else. She’s a good person. But now she’ll be branded as a deserter and lose everything if she returns.”

“You would make her a traitor, not just a deserter,” Soren pointed out. “Does she think that’s better?”

Ike shook his head. “I think she is starting to see that Daein is in the wrong.”

Soren sighed. “I am not going to change your mind about this, am I?”

“Nope!” Ike replied in a voice that sounded like Mist. 

“Fine, we can adopt the Daein strays. As you said, perhaps they will prove to be strategically advantageous.”

Ike looked disappointed. “You weren’t listening to anything I was saying, were you?”

Soren breathed a soft laugh. “It only seems fair.”


	26. CHAPTER 26: A ROYAL RECEPTION

When they entered Begnion waters, the merchants, mercenaries, and crewmembers joked, danced, and sparred with glee. When they passed other ships, they struck friendly colors and asked for news. There were fishing ships, merchant vessels like Nasir’s, and even warships in the Begnion navy. Others were the private yachts of nobles, and still others were large pleasure ships from which music played and naked people could be seen traipsing around the deck. (Oscar made sure to confiscate Rolf’s spyglass whenever such a ship passed).

Nasir spread word of the raven trap in return for gossip, but Elincia’s identity and presence on board were kept the strictest secret. The majority of the mercenaries also had to go belowdecks whenever they neared another vessel. After all, this was not meant to be a passenger ship, and the large numbers would be suspicious.

“We should see the harbor by midafternoon,” Nasir informed Ike, Titania, and Soren.

“I will go tell Princess Elincia!” Ike ran off excitedly.

Soren was about to take his leave of Nasir and Titania when Mist came charging up to them. “Look! Look! What’s that?” She was pointing to something over the bow. They followed her to the railing and stared. A sparkling white shape was speeding toward them: a pegasus. Its wings spread wide as its hooves glided over the surface of the waves. Then, with a flick of the reigns, the rider commanded the pegasus launch into the sky. It circled their mast three times before alighting gently on the deck. The pegasus whinnied, and the rider slid from its saddle.

“If I am not mistaken, that is one of the Empress’s Holy Guards. She must be a messenger come to meet Princess Crimea,” Nasir mused.

“Well, that must be a good thing, right?” Titania asked encouragingly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Soren crossed his arms. “Technically, Begnion should not have known of our approach or even of Elincia’s survival. This acknowledgment and courtesy are suspicious to say the least.”

Titania frowned. “Well, maybe I’m just not as paranoid as you.”

Without another word, the four descended to the main deck, where the pegasus knight saluted them. “I bring a message for Princess Elincia of Crimea on behalf of Empress Sanaki, Apostle of Begnion. Is the Princess aboard this vessel?”

Titania nodded to Soren and Nasir, saying in a lowered voice: “Go get them. I’ll stay with her.”

“Ike, there’s someone here claiming to be an envoy from the theocracy of Begnion. She’s been asking if the Princess of Crimea is aboard.” Nasir reported when they had reached Elincia’s cabin and found them both there. “What do you want to do?”

“A Begnion envoy?” Ike repeated, “How did she know about this ship?”

“Hmm.” Nasir rubbed his jaw. “Perhaps she had word from King Gallia?” Soren doubted it, and apparently so did Nasir. “On the other hand, this is Begnion we’re speaking of. I imagine it has spies in every corner of the continent. Perhaps one of those agents is the source of her information.” Soren had ceased being surprised by Nasir’s insight.

“So, we shouldn’t be surprised if she knows about Princess Elincia?” Ike asked, glancing at her.

“No,” Soren answered. “But it’s extremely unusual for Begnion to send an envoy to meet a princess whom they do not even acknowledge.”

Ike was clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

“It is a complicated matter,” Soren explained, “You see, the envoy is essentially an extension of the empress herself. Both Crimea and Daein were once part of Begnion. Both nations have only splintered from the theocracy in the past two hundred years or so. I can’t fathom why the empress would extend the courtesy of an envoy to a nation she considers beneath her. She must be planning something.”

“Beneath her?” Nasir repeated disapprovingly. He glanced at Elincia, who remained silent. “That is somewhat harsh, don’t you think?”

“Harsh perhaps, but it’s true. Clothing it in words will not hide its bitterness will it?” he replied. (Honestly, he couldn’t care less about the little princess’s feelings.)

“Soren, even I would question the tactfulness of your words.” Ike glanced at Elincia apologetically.

Soren hadn’t expected Ike to scold him, and it gave him pause. He considered the possibility he might be too inconsiderate given his position as an officer. It had never been a problem before; neither Ike nor Greil had ever chastised him for it. After hesitating, he finally gave in: “I will try to be more diplomatic.”

“Ike, Nasir, you’ve no need to scold Soren,” Elincia spoke up, and Soren resented her defense. “His words are just that. They do me no harm.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Princess, but he should mind his manners.” Nasir’s frown seemed deeper than a stranger’s judgement warranted, and Soren gave his best glare in response.

Meanwhile Ike got the conversation back on track: “Deciding how we ought to treat with this envoy is a more pressing issue. Princess, will you meet her and hear her message?”

“I believe I must. We gain nothing by refusing her. Let us meet with the envoy!” Elincia announced graciously.

“Princess Elincia of Crimea I presume…” The pegasus knight eyed the young noble from head to toe. Elincia had donned the orange dress she’d been wearing the day they’d found her, but now it was more of a bleached brown color due to travel and time spent on the ship. Her long green hair was held in a simple braid, and it clearly hadn’t been washed in weeks. Her forehead and cheeks were burned red, but she held her head high.

“Yes,” she answered.

The envoy bowed slightly. “It is an honor to meet you,” she said. “My name is Tanith. I am the Deputy Commanding Officer of Begnion’s Holy Guard.”

“I must ask—what would the Empress of Begnion want of me that she would send her Holy Guard to greet me?” Elincia asked humbly.

“The Apostle has learned of you, Princess Elincia, and she has come here to meet with you personally,” Tanith explained, “The duty falls upon me to take you to her.”

“The Apostle? Am I to meet- Surely the Apostle has better things to do than-” She was far too flustered.

“Will you accompany me?” Tanith placed one hand on her mount and held out the other.

Soren hoped Ike would intervene. The Greil Mercenaries needed to be in constant guard of the princess. If they lost her to the hospitality of Begnion, they would lose her to the protection of Begnion as well. Their employment would no longer be required.

“I suppose that I…” Elincia glanced uncertainly from Tanith to Ike and back again.

“We are the princess’s escorts, and we will be coming with her,” Ike declared firmly. Elincia looked relieved. “I hope you understand,” he added in a low voice.

“Of course.” Tanith sounded irritated. She removed her hand from the pegasus.

“Then yes, I will go with you. Thank you.” Elincia curtsied.

With a sudden clatter of hooves, another Holy Guard landed on the deck. This rushed landing was far less graceful than Tanith’s, and Sothe was nearly run over in the process. The rider jumped from her steed and charged up to Tanith. After hastily saluting, she launched into a bout of anxious whispers. However, it was impossible not to be overheard. “Bad news, ma’am. We’ve sighted laguz near the Apostle’s position. Birdmen. Crows most likely.”

Tanith sighed. “We’ve seen their kind before. They fancy themselves pirates without a ship, but they’re thieves plain and simple. Commander Sigrun is with the Apostle, and it will take more than a few winged scavengers to get past her.” She placed a hand on her subordinate’s shoulder. “Let’s remain calm.”

“I…” The guard didn’t seem reassured. She shifted from one foot to the other. “Actually, I’m afraid we aren’t quite sure where the Apostle is…”

“What? They’ve kidnapped the Apostle?” Tanith exploded.

“No, no!” She threw up her hands. Tanith glanced sideways at her confused audience. Straining a polite smile, she pulled the guard aside so they could converse more privately. They erupted in bursts of harsh whispers, but Soren could no longer hear the words.

He, Ike, Mist, Titania, Nasir, and Elincia shared a spattering of uncertain glances, until Elincia finally led the party over.

“Understood. We’ll move immediately,” Tanith was saying.

“Excuse me, but is something wrong?” Elincia asked tentatively.

“Your Highness, I must apologize, but an urgent matter has arisen, and I must attend to it immediately. I will come for you later. Await my return!” Without another word, she and her subordinate mounted their pegasi and took off.

“What was _that_ all about?” Ike wondered.

“Judging from her expression, I’d say something has happened to her charge, the Apostle,” Titania suggested.

“Say, do you think that ship over there is involved? The envoy is flying in that direction.” Mist pointed over the side. It was quite bright to the east, so they all had to shade their eyes. Soren could barely make out two ships. Nasir extracted his spyglass and handed it to Ike.

“If so, then the pegasus knight’s fears have already been realized—they’re under attack.” Ike focused the lens. “It’s the ravens they spoke of.” Collapsing the spyglass, he handed it back to Nasir.

“Ike,” Soren said, suddenly have an idea, “why don’t we go lend them a hand?”

Everyone froze and stared at him. “Are you feeling alright, Soren?” Ike asked, probably recalling their conversation last month. “It’s not like you to offer help to, well, anyone.”

Soren crossed his arms. He hoped they didn’t think he was becoming soft. “It’s a great opportunity to put the empress in our debt. We’d be fools to pass that up, wouldn’t we?”

Ike released a bark of laughter. “I should have known you’d have an angle. What do you want to do, Titania?”

“I don’t approve of Soren’s motivations, but I agree that we should _help_.” She sounded out the last word pointedly.

“Well, then that’s what we’ll do!” Ike turned to Elincia. “Will you be alright on your own, Princess?”

“You’re doing the right thing. I would not dream of stopping you. I know those pirates are no match for your strength. Give them-” She giggled. “Give them a sound thrashing!” Everyone winced, but she seemed overjoyed by her new use of language.

“Huh…” Ike smiled. “You’re starting to sound like one of us, aren’t you?” Elincia blushed but seemed pleased. “Alright then, we’d better go!” he addressed the others. Most of the mercenaries had already come out on the deck. Orders were quickly given, and Nasir steered them toward the battle.

They were entering a chaotic scene, but it only took Soren a moment to make sense of it. There were two vessels, the larger being a Begnion passenger ship. The smaller displayed no flags or symbols of any kind, and Soren couldn’t determine its nationality. Its crew was clearly beorc, and although they looked like pirates, they fought like soldiers. This ship was currently latched on to the passenger vessel’s portside like a bloated tick.

In the sky above and around the two vessels, raven laguz and pegasus knights fought in an intense aerial battle. Members of either side would occasionally crash into the sea in a rain of red blood and either white or black feathers. On the deck of the passenger vessel, soldiers clad in the crimson armor of Begnion were failing to fend off the beorc attackers, who boarded via gangplanks and ropes.

Soren noticed that the Begnion guards had dedicated most of their strength to the defense of the passageway leading below. Soren had little doubt that this was where the passengers—and possibly the empress—were hiding.

Lastly, he also noted that the laguz and beorc pirates were working together, which was suspicious to say the least. Clearly this wasn’t a mere crime of opportunity. But Soren couldn’t solve that mystery now; he had to focus on the imminent battle.

Tanith and her regiment were getting their equine butts kicked, so Ike ordered Marcia and Jill to lend them support. The rest of the mercenaries would help the soldiers on deck. Nasir took the helm and steered them flush against the starboard side. A flurry of panic arose as Begnion guards mistook them for pirate reinforcements. But then one of Nasir’s sailors hoisted the Crimean flag, and Ike called through cupped hands: “Attention Begnion soldiers! The Greil Mercenaries are here to back you up. Don’t give those pirates an inch!”

Nasir’s crew let down the gangplank, and Ike led the charge. No one looked down as they ran across the narrow board, and Soren allowed himself a small breath of relief when he reached the other side. However, there was no time to dwell on his safety—and little safety to be had. The pirates had nearly overrun the deck. 

The mercenaries fought their hardest, and their vigor seemed to inspire the guards: soldiers who appeared either too young, too old, or out of shape under their armor. But perhaps this was to be expected considering they’d been assigned to watch a bunch of vacationing nobles in safe Begnion waters, where flying corsairs rarely dared enter. But with Ike taking the lead, these lesser troops were transformed into brave warriors. The young ones watched him surge to the front in awe. Others tried to keep up with an air of competitive ambition. The elderly wore nostalgic smiles. None were hesitant to follow him, and Ike never turned around to make sure he was being followed.

Before long, the pirates onboard the passenger ship had been killed or had retreated to their own vessel. At Ike’s command, the soldiers secured the enemy gangplanks at their end so they couldn’t be raised and the ship escape. Then he walked the length of the portside, calling orders and assembling the mercenaries and soldiers in two lines of defense. The first line would cut down any pirate trying to come back, and the second would shoot down any wayward laguz or any beorc trying to cross by rope.

“Soren, crow at your ten!” Ike warned, and he pivoted to the spot. “Rolf, watch the man in the rigging!” he ordered, and Rolf trained an arrow on the pirate. “Zihark, catch!” he called, tossing him a new sword, which he easily snatched out of the air and promptly whipped into a pirate’s neck. “Gatrie, block that plank! Hold the line!”

The mercenaries’ heads shot up, and even Soren turned away from his opponent to stare. Sure enough, the familiar hulk of blue-painted steel was standing in the front line, blocking a pirate’s attack with his lance. “Righto, Boss!” he called in response.

Soren was not fond of coincidences, but he had to accept what he saw with his own eyes. For whatever reason, Gatrie was on this ship. He and Ike had evidently spoken, and he was now fighting under Ike’s command—something he’d refused to do five months ago. Resigned to learn the full story later, Soren turned his attention back to the battle.

And it wasn’t a moment too soon. Two ravens had escaped the Holy Guard and were dive-bombing Oscar and Nephenee, neither of whom appeared to have a clue. He struck one with Elwind, but he was too late to stop the other. They hooked Nephenee around the shoulders, dragging her into the air. She screamed and wriggled, but that only made the blade-like talons slice back and forth into her armpits and up her arms. Oscar tried to come to her rescue, but his lance wasn’t long enough. She was already too high.

Begnion soldiers were nervously firing arrows, but it was a wonder they didn’t hit Nephenee, their aim was so poor. The Kilvan laughed—a human sound, a woman’s voice.

“Hang on, Nephenee!” came Lethe’s voice. She had, evidently, climbed halfway up the mast for just this occasion. Still in her human form, she launched herself over the heads of the soldiers below. Arms outstretched, she transformed in midair, plunging her claws into the raven’s wing joints and planting her fangs in her neck. All three landed in the stern, hitting the deck hard. Fortunately no one fell into the sea; Nephenee’s armor would have drowned her, and Soren didn’t know if cats could swim.

Satisfied that the two women were alive, Soren turned his attention back to the battle. He sent one spell after another into the pirates’ ranks and was increasingly certain that these weren’t really pirates at all. It seemed an entire army had been stuffed into this simple, unmarked ship.

When Ike judged the time was right, he ordered the final advance. Mordecai galloped across one gangplank, Gatrie jogged down another, the leader of the Begnion guard sprinted down the third, and of course Ike charged down the fourth and final board. Behind them raced the rest of the soldiers and mercenaries, howling and yipping like wild dogs.

For the first time, Soren noticed two raven laguz in their unshifted forms, floating beyond the pirate ship’s port side. They were out of range of even the best archer, let alone Soren’s wind magic, but he squinted and tried to get a better look. One appeared old and shriveled while the other was tall and imposing, but other than that, Soren didn’t know what to make of them—perhaps the captain of the crow-pirates and his first mate?

Neither entered the fray, and when they saw that the beorc pirates were going to lose, they flew toward their brethren currently embattled with the Holy Guards. The leaders appeared to give new orders, and the cloud of ravens broke apart.

A large portion turned tail and fled, flying west with a burst of speed the pegasi couldn’t match. But others split off, diving nimbly around the Holy Guards to attack the ships directly. “Watch out!” Soren called, and he heard a handful of mercenaries and soldiers echoing his words. Apparently he wasn’t the only one watching the skies.

The ravens fell upon all three ships and tore through everything—ripping open hatches, breaking barrels and boxes, squeezing through porthole windows, and smashing the ornate windows of the captains’ quarters. They even killed some of their allies to access the pirate ship’s holds. They were more concerned with looting than fighting, and soldiers and mercenaries rushed to defend the other two vessels.

They managed to kill some of the winged pirates, but others escaped, carrying whatever valuables they’d found in billowing black sacks looped from neck to foot. The Holy Guards were able to pick off a couple more of these thieves, but their stolen goods tumbled into the sea, lost forever.

Soren watched these antics and did what he could to prevent them, but he was tired and injured and truly didn’t care if the crows made off with golden candlesticks and silver plates from the Begnion ship. During this confusion, however, a portion of the beorc pirates managed to escape as well, which did bother Soren. They lowered two sloops on the portside and were dashing across the waves in opposite directions before anyone could stop them.

This frustrated Soren, who wanted to know who they were, why they’d attacked this ship, and why they’d partnered with laguz. Now there was no one to interrogate. Although the leader of the pirate-soldiers hadn’t escaped, he refused to surrender. He fought until he died on Ike’s blade (perhaps even throwing himself on it so Ike couldn’t show mercy and Begnion take him into custody).

Soon after the captain’s defeat, a second cloud of pegasi appeared from the east, flying in a wedge formation. The leader wore brilliant white armor, and behind her whipped bright teal hair. Tanith and the remnants of her force united with the reinforcements. Faced with the full Holy Guard, the remaining crows were quick to disappear. The guards did not pursue

“That’s it,” Titania sighed. “It looks like the dust is finally starting to settle.” She was grinning despite what appeared to be two black eyes darkening her cheeks.

“It looks like those crows took flight as soon as the Holy Guard arrived. The other assailants fled too,” Soren reported. He looked over the water, where he could still see the white sails of the pirates’ escape boats growing smaller by the second. 

“Then our job here is done,” Ike declared with satisfaction. He surveyed the messy decks, and a more troubled expression came over his face. “Crows are one thing, but what were those men doing with them?” No one answered immediately, and while he waited for a response, he cleaned and sheathed his blade.

“Yes, I thought that was odd, too,” Titania finally said, and again there was silence.

Mist loosened and slid the couter down Titania’s arm, examining a puncture just above the elbow. Biting her lip in concentration, she pressed her staff toward the wound. She’d become a decent healer in just a short time. Soren was awaiting his own turn at her attention, but clamping a hand over the broken arrow shaft in his shoulder was all he could do for now.

“They looked like pirates, but they certainly didn’t act like them,” Ike noted. He was also watching the disappearing sloop.

“True. They weren’t interested in treasure, and their soldiers definitely were trained fighters. But who were they? Which country did they serve? Was this an attempt on the Apostle’s life?” Titania wondered aloud. 

“It’s possible.” Nasir said suddenly, joining them. It was odd to see him away from his ship, but he seemed equally at ease here—on the unfamiliar vessel surrounded by unfamiliar corpses. Soren frowned as he continued: “The Apostle is the symbol of the Begnion Empire: its Empress. If she were to perish, it’s fair to say Begnion itself would perish.”

“I see.” Ike nodded.

A cry suddenly erupted from the passenger ship, only a few dozen yards away: “The Apostle is missing? What do you mean!” All heads turned to see Tanith with her hands on her hips while a red-armored halberdier half-bowed, half-cowered in front of her. 

“Something must have happened. Let’s go find out.” Ike dashed across the gangplank with Titania and Nasir right behind him. Soren reluctantly brushed aside Mist, who’d finally been able to look at his shoulder. Knowing what had happened to the apostle was more important. 

“Ugh. This business is becoming quite the headache,” Tanith was saying when they reached her. 

“I-I’m sorry, ma’am!” stuttered the soldier. “If I can offer up my life in repentance for-”

“Oh, stop it.” Tanith shooed him away. “If you want to repent, go do something useful and find the Apostle.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The soldier saluted and ran off.

Tanith turned her attention to the four arrivals.

“Did I hear correctly?” Ike asked. “Is the apostle missing again?”

Tanith scowled. “Oh, you’re that mercenary.”

Ike scowled in return and assured her it was no fault of theirs: “My men guarded the cabin entrance. As far as I know, we kept it safe from the enemy.”

Tanith sighed. “From what I have been told, the Apostle slipped out of the cabin on her own in the chaos.”

“On her own? Now why would anyone called ‘the apostle’ do something as stupid as that?” Ike blurted.

“Ike! Watch your words. You’re being rude,” Titania warned.

“It’s all right, dame knight. I have more important matters on my mind.” Tanith assured with a wave of her hand. (Soren was a bit annoyed that Ike was not reprimanded for his poor manners as he’d been, but now was not the time for petty things.) Tanith continued after a reluctant pause: “I hate to ask, but would I be able to enlist your help in searching for the Apostle?”

“Of course!” Titania answered, only then realizing she should have allowed Ike to answer. “You don’t mind helping, do you, Ike?”

“Nah.” Ike shrugged.

Tanith nodded. “We’ll search the enemy ship. Would you search your ship, just to be sure? I would appreciate it.”

Ike agreed, and they crossed the plank back to their own vessel. Soren was pleased by this development. It would be good for the Greil Mercenaries if they were the ones to find the apostle. Just then, Mist reappeared, looking exhausted and wiping the sweat out of her eyes. She tapped Soren’s arm. “Let me finish,” she said, and he stood still while she worked.

“I’ll do what I can to find her, but I don’t even know who I’m looking for,” Ike sighed. He glanced around the deck. It was in disarray thanks to the crows. 

“I think it’s safe to assume she will be a woman of stature, a noble of some sort,” Soren speculated. In fact, he couldn’t understand how an empress could slip away unnoticed, even during a battle.

“Well, I suppose all we have to do is keep our eyes peeled for any stowaway—anyone we don’t know.” Titania clapped her hands. “Let’s split up. It’ll go faster if we search separately. Mist and I will check this side,” Titania suggested, and Soren had a feeling she just wanted to give the young healer a break.

She gestured for the girl to join her, at which Mist nodded and dropped his arm. He worked his shoulder joint and found it was mostly healed. The freshly grown sinew only needed time and rest to become comfortable again.

“Then Soren and I will search the rest of the ship,” Ike declared.

Titania and Mist walked toward to stern, so Soren and Ike headed for the bow, which was in the worst condition. They righted overturned barrels and crates and picked up ropes and chains. They even pushed a laguz corpse over the side.

“Soren…about what I said this morning…” Ike said as they worked, and Soren was taken aback by the hesitancy in his voice.

“Yes?” he asked coolly, despite the panic seizing his mind as he tried to remember what Ike was referring to. He feared this was about to turn into some interrogation or exposition. But he was careful not to allow even a flicker of this surge of emotion to cross his face.

“About the way you phrase things,” Ike clarified.

“I…” Soren calmed. That was all he was talking about. “I ought to apologize for that.”

“No, don’t apologize. I know you. I know it’s been bothering you, hasn’t it?”

“No.” Soren quickly denied, but he had to admit he’d just been thinking of it. “Well…”

“Don’t take it personally. I’m no better, you know,” Ike laughed.

Soren had to agree, but when Ike spoke out or was rude, it was somehow noble. He was never patronized or berated for his blunt words.

“Your ability to speak plainly the things other won’t is part of what makes you brilliant,” he continued. “Others are too bound by courtesy. With you, I trust that what you say is exactly what you think.”

“Well…yes…” Soren was surprised and confused, but he couldn’t stop the small smile that crept onto his face. “Thank you, Ike.”

“Now, about that missing apostle…” Ike coughed and turned back to the task.

The following silence was a little awkward, but Soren didn’t mind. He took a few steps away and continued searching, pushing aside a crate to expose the door to a narrow hold. He heaved the hatch open and found inside a little girl lying on the coiled anchor chain. “Oh,” he exclaimed without meaning to.

Ike dashed over. “You found her?” he asked excitedly.

“No, I don’t think so. But there’s a child stowed away in here.” Soren moved so he could see.

“What? What is a child doing on our ship?” Ike demanded.

Considering the three other children already on their ship—namely Mist, Rolf, and Sothe—Soren thought this an odd question. But he held his tongue, instead saying: “She must be some aristocrat’s daughter. Probably slipped on from the Begnion ship… It was a hectic battle. She must have been frightened and lost herself in the confusion. Are you going to help her?”

“Well, we can’t just leave her,” Ike countered. Together they hoisted her out of the hatch and onto the deck. She regained consciousness, and her eyelids fluttered in the brightness.

Ike knelt down. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I-I’m…fine,” she replied. She was quite small but wore several brightly-colored robes layered on top of one another. Her arms were lost in tasseled sleeves, and her legs in billowing skirts. She was also bedecked in scarves, braids, and bows. It was all rather ridiculous-looking.

“Hey don’t be scared,” Ike consoled, although Soren didn’t think she looked scared in the least—just a little confused.

She frowned at Ike. “Who might you be? You don’t look like a laguz. Perhaps a new recruit?” She didn’t seem impressed.

“No,” Ike explained patiently, “I’m a mercenary. I was hired by Princess Elincia.”

“The Crimean Princess?” The girl tried to stand up straighter. She took a step forward but stumbled. “Ouch!”

“What’s wrong? Oh, you hurt your foot. Let me see.” Ike reached out to grab her, but the girl wouldn’t cooperate.

She thrust out her hand and hobbled backward. “Hold! Do not approach me!”

Ike grabbed her anyway. He plopped her down on a barrel, where she sat motionless, obviously stunned. He rummaged among the many layers of skirts looking for her foot, at which she transformed from completely stunned to completely enraged. “Hey, I told you not to-” Ike began to roll the ankle joint. “ _Ooooouch!_ You’re hurting me! You fool!” She struggled and fussed, hitting the top of Ike’s head over the heap of cloth thrown into her lap. Ike finally stopped and released her foot. She indignantly patted down her skirts.

“Looks like the bone’s not broken,” Ike announced. “Still, we’d better have Mist take a look at it just in case.” Before the girl could protest, Ike picked her up again, set her on the ground, wedged a hand under her arm and, and began walking. Soren followed at a safe distance, content to watch.

“What- What are you doing?” she demanded as she limped.

Ike was half-carrying her. “Just hold on to me. There’s my sister.” Ike pointed to Mist. “She can heal that foot of yours right up.”

The girl muttered and protested under her breath, and Soren found this amusing. Ike was usually good with children younger than himself, but his self-assuredness clearly wasn’t winning over this one.

“Ike! Any luck finding the Apostle?” Mist asked.

“Nope. All we found was a lost kid.” Ike made sure the girl was steady before letting go.

“Aw, she’s quite a cutie.” Titania bent so she was resting one hand on one knee and with the other pushed back a lock of her long, dark purple hair. The girl looked flabbergasted.

“Mist, do you think you could use your staff to heal her?” Ike asked.

Despite her exhaustion, Mist’s face bloomed with concern. “Yeah. Is she hurt?”

“Just her foot… But maybe she bumped her head, too.” Ike shrugged. “She’s been mumbling complete gibberish since I picked her up.”

The girl had clearly had enough. She clenched her fists, shouting: “I kept silent, blaming these antics on your ignorance, but I can no longer tolerate your manners!”

No longer amused, Soren crossed his arms in anticipation of yet another lecture.

“Huh? What’s wrong? It’s your foot isn’t it?” Ike asked.

“Prepare yourselves, peasants!” The girl drew herself to her full height (which was still not very much).

“Prepare?” Ike laughed. “For what?”

“You stand in the presence of Sanaki, Empress of Begnion!” the girl proclaimed, “I am the Apostle, the Voice of the Goddess!”

“Empress?” Ike was no longer laughing. “What did she say?”

“What?” Titania cocked her head. “Then she is…”

“Oh, no, is she really?” Mist threw her hands over her mouth.

“No, she _can’t_ be.” Ike tilted his head in the same direction as Titania.

“No way,” Soren said simply.

“Hold your judgment.” Titania tried to be reasonable. “Even if she’s lying, there must be a reason.”

The girl—or empress—was still furious. “You-you ignorant-!”

A voice called behind them: “Are you all right, Empress?” The teal-haired woman pushed them aside and flew to kneel in front of the girl. Her face bore the concern of a mother, and Soren expected her to throw her arms around the child, but instead she bowed. “My apologies! We were unable to reach you, and we left you in terrible peril. I accept full responsibility.”

The girl dropped her fists to her hips. “You’re late, Sigrun! What would you have done had something happened to me?”

“Please, Empress, I beg your forgiveness,” replied the guard—Sigrun. Two more Holy Guards joined her begging and bowing to a prepubescent girl.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sanaki said. “I am also partly to blame for what happened.”

“Partly?” Soren repeated, but Titania stepped on his foot to silence him.

“Let’s focus instead on our rescuers,” the young empress continued, gesturing that Sigrun and the guards could stand. “As a reward for rescuing me, I would like to invite them to visit our court. And be sure that the one they serve, the girl who claims to be the Princess of Crimea, is invited as well.” She extended a graceful hand to one of the guards, who led her away at a slow limp. 

Once the empress was out of earshot, Sigrun addressed them: “Princess Elincia’s bodyguards, I presume. I am sorry for the trouble you’ve gone to.”

“And you are?” Ike asked.

“I beg your pardon.” The woman placed a hand over her chest. “My name is Sigrun. I’m the Commander of Begnion’s Holy Guard. No word of thanks will ever repay you for saving the Empress.”

“Wait, so it’s true?” Mist asked in disbelief.

“Are you saying that little child…?” Titania began.

“is Begnion’s…?” Ike continued.

“Empress,” Soren concluded. He may not have accepted it a moment ago, but now he’d seen proof and was willing to move on. “It appears so. I can’t say I quite believe it, but she seems sincere. Besides, how many people do you know who command a legion of pegasus knights?”

The others nodded, and Sigrun smiled. Then they watched as Sanaki, Tanith, and the rest of the Holy Guard took to the sky.

“The Empress has invited us to join her at Sienne,” Sigrun said pleasantly. “I think we should go. Where is the princess? We should ask her permission before agreeing.” Soren didn’t like how she was counting herself as part of ‘us’ and ‘we’.

“She must be in the cabin. I’ll take you to her.” Ike turned and waved for Sigrun to follow.


	27. CHAPTER 27: BEGNION

The mercenaries were escorted by carriage inland to the capital city. The distance was long, but the journey was made quicker by the wide, paved roads and imperial carts. Their drivers hardly seemed to sleep, and when their horses tired, they could exchange them for fresh ones at any stable. The mercenaries slept inside the carriages, which only stopped a handful of times each day. At this pace, they reached Sienne in just five days.

When they finally arrived, Soren’s carriage-mates (Oscar, Boyd, and Rolf) stared out the windows in awe, and although he didn’t crane to see, he was admittedly impressed. They’d passed through several towns on their way here, but none compared to Sienne. This was the ancient city of temples. No building was plain or small, but each grander and more magnificent than the last. Many of these cathedrals were the homes of the ‘Sainted’: the richest families of Begnion. The skyline was jagged with ornamental tiers and spires of varying designs, the tallest of which was the Tower of Guidance. The golden monolith had stood at the center of this city since time immemorial, and its peak was only ever seen on cloudless days.

The tower was supposedly the seat of Ashera’s power in the mortal world. Thousands made pilgrimages to it each year, although none but the Apostle was allowed to enter. But Soren was not a religious person, and the only awe the tower inspired in him was respect for the engineers who must have built it eons ago. He turned his attention to the second largest edifice in Sienne: the Temple Mainal, home of the empress and hall of the senate.

However, Soren wasn’t interested in Sanki’s family home nor the rule of Begnion; he was more concerned with the Mainal Cathedral, which was a more modest-looking wing (by Siennese standards) extending from the side of Temple Mainal like an awkward growth. Beneath the cathedral were the catacombs: the ancient archives of Begnion and the largest collection of knowledge in all of Tellius. Surely there Soren would find his answer, whatever it may be.

Ike, Elincia, Titania, and Nasir rode in the lead carriage, so they were the first to disembark. Soren and the moss-headed brothers were in the second carriage, and he tried to see what was happening through the window. The person greeting them was not the empress but some bejeweled older fellow. He bowed stiffly to Elincia, who curtsied. Then they were shown into the mansion

Servants carried their things from the carriage, and then it moved on. Soren’s carriage jostled forward, and finally he and the others could disembark as well. Ike, Elincia, Titania, and Nasir were nowhere to be seen, and Soren was a little miffed at being left out. No servants were present to help them, so Soren, Oscar, Boyd, and Rolf had to carry their own bags. No one complained.

“Wait here,” ordered a man in red armor. They waited until one carriage after the next dumped mercenaries onto the mansion’s front steps. Finally, the two merchant wagons trundled up, pulling four horses, one pegasus, and one wyvern by lead ropes. Oscar and Kieran jogged over to croon over their steeds (with Oscar doing double duty for Titania’s). Marcia pranced in circles with her pegasus, Jill scratched her beast’s scaly neck, and finally the new girl—Astrid Baum—walked over to lay her cheek against her sorrel mare’s.

Soren had nearly forgotten about the recruit. She was a noblewoman who’d fought beside them on the Begnion ship. When the battle had ended, Gatrie had crossed the gangplank over to Nasir’s ship as Soren had predicted he would. Unexpectedly however, Astrid had walked behind him, leading her nervous horse over the plank and sea below.

Soren had asked Ike about it, and he’d merely laughed and said Gatrie and Astrid came as a package deal. Both wanted to join (or in Gatrie’s case, rejoin) the Greil Mercenaries, so Ike had welcomed them. “Of course you did,” Soren had replied with a shake of his head. Gatrie’s previous lack of loyalty had apparently slipped Ike’s mind, and the possibility that Astrid was a Begnion spy had probably not entered his mind at all. But Soren hadn’t pointed these things out; he knew Ike would just ignore him.

He shook away the memory when the soldier finally showed them inside. “Follow me!” he barked, pivoting and marching up the stairs like a stiff-limbed toy. Other soldiers took the ropes from Oscar, Kieran, Astrid, and Marcia (and a long chain from Jill, which the guard grasped uneasily). Then another two began directing the wagons into the mansion’s enormous carriage house. Soren followed the toy soldier as ordered, and the mercenaries entered the grand entrance hall.

Everything sparkled so much Soren had to squint. “Welcome to the house of Lord Herring,” the soldier announced. “I have been told to inform you that rooms are being prepared in Temple Mainal, but you will be lodged here until such a time as these preparations are complete.”

“And where is this ‘Lord Herring’? Are we not going to meet our host?” Soren asked in annoyance.

“The Lord is escorting the alleged Crimean princess to meet with the Apostle,” the soldier answered. “You will remain in the mansion until such a time as they return. Then you will be free to move about the city, with a sunset curfew, as you’ll understand.”

There were some murmurs of disappointment, but without Ike or Titania to guide and inspire them, the mercenaries were meek. No one spoke up. Soren was the most senior officer here, but he knew no one looked to him for direction. So he didn’t argue either.

The soldier then showed them to their quarters. They were boarded four to a room just as with the carriages. Soren longed for privacy again. 

Two days passed, and Ike, Elincia, Titania, and Nasir spent the majority of each day meeting with Sanaki and her court. From Ike’s nightly rants, Soren knew these sessions were a frustrating exercise in etiquette and interrogation. Ike wasn’t patient enough for either.

Although he was exempt from these meetings, Soren had his own difficulty adjusting to Siennese society. For one, the people were insufferable. Begnion’s elite were simply rich; there was nothing sacred or blessed about these ‘Sainted’. Even the city’s legions of priests were nothing but corrupt gluttons and hedonists. As for the poor and oppressed—the servants who made such a city possible—the Sainted had had centuries to perfect the art of hiding them. What they couldn’t hide, they spattered with glitter and silk.

Soren attuned his eye to these things, looking for the cracks, the details that revealed the ancient city’s seedy underbelly. He was satisfied with what he found and content to hate these pompous doll-men and their frivolous games of wealth and politics. It felt good to spite their riches and their beautiful things, their large empty halls and fair-weather friends, the bottomless pits in their hearts and their ever-expanding appetites.

But even hate could turn to boredom, and that was what Soren came to feel most of all. So he tried to distract himself by perfecting his plan to gain entrance to the catacombs. The archives were not exactly open to poor mercenaries serving questionable princesses from lesser nations, and although he might have asked Ike to request special permission, Soren didn’t want anyone to know what he was researching. Of course he could fashion a lie—claim to be looking for useful information on Daein—but then an imperial librarian would likely be assigned to him. He couldn’t guarantee his true research would remain secret. No, it was better to cover his tracks, move in darkness, alert no witnesses, and accrue no suspicion.

His advantage was that the Sainted didn’t safeguard their hoard of knowledge with the same fervor they guarded their jewels; the Mainal Cathedral was minimally guarded. His disadvantage was that the mercenaries were currently being watched more closely than the catacombs’ entrance. They were spied on constantly and forbidden from leaving after sunset.

Soren had reason to believe both Volke and Sothe were slipping away regularly. But he didn’t have their skills and was not about to ask for their help. If anything, they posed another threat—four more watchful eyes to avoid.

Their move to Temple Mainal was imminent, and once it happened, surveillance would only become stricter. Unable to wait and plan any longer, Soren had to set his plan in motion. He began in the early evening, when the servants were starting dinner. As soon as they’d begun prepping the kitchen, Soren tiptoed through a narrow service corridor, at the end of which he waited and watched. The servants dumped fresh coals between the grates, opened the chimney flues, and began chopping onions and garlic while gossiping and trading jokes. Around this time each day, Kieran and Oscar came to talk with them. Kieran flirted with the girls and entranced the boys with stories, while Oscar traded recipes with the older folk.

Soren could tell the servants were waiting for them, and he waited too. After a few minutes, they finally arrived, knocking on the double doors to announce themselves. A young woman giggled and ran to open them. Everyone crowded around a table by the small woodstove, and an older woman offered to start tea as if the thought had just occurred to her (but the leaves were already on the counter).

Now that they were distracted, Soren scurried out of his hiding place as quietly as he could. He slowly turned each of the levers controlling the flues, and he was glad the axles were well-greased so they didn’t squeak. With the chimneys closed, smoke would fill the kitchen, but Soren would help it along a bit. He extracted the three burlap sacks loosely filled with pine twigs he’d collected earlier today. Flattening these, he slid one in each oven, between the coals and the air intake.

He scurried back to his hiding place just as the eldest servant began her nightly ritual of shooing Kieran and Oscar away so they could work. This would take several minutes, so Soren knew he had time. The mercenaries would insist they stay a little while longer, and the younger servants would whine and beg they be allowed to.

Soren grabbed a red apple off of a pyramid of them and slipped away. If he’d been seen, or were to be seen during the next step in his plan, the apple core would be his alibi. He’d slipped in to steal a snack; no harm done.

Hidden behind a crate in the corridor, Soren waited for the cooks to begin laying strips of meat, stuffed vegetables, and whole chickens on the grates. Now was time for the second part of his plan. With a simple spell, he turned up the heat one oven at a time: “*Spirits of flame, alight. Spirits of flame, alight. Spirits of flame, alight!*” 

The fires flared, and the servants began shouting and leaping into action. At first, they beat at the fire with their aprons, but soon they were forced to retreat. Their lord’s nightly feast may have been burning, but it was also making an undue among of smoke. The servants choked, coughed, and ran out of the kitchen.

Now it was time for a wind spell. “*Fly, spirits of wind!*” he whispered, despite his stinging eyes and throat. The gust pushed the smoke through the doors and into the hall. He then uttered the spell a second time for good measure.

By now smoke was billowing into the halls, and Soren could only assume the servants’ screams had drawn the attention of the whole manse. He slipped through the service corridor into a main hallway, joining the curious mercenaries and panicked soldiers.

Everyone was coughing, and the guards were calling for an evacuation, telling people to wait outside until they found the source of the smoke and dealt with it. The mercenaries poured into the cool night air, obviously gleeful to be allowed out in the forbidden night. The city was dazzling, cast in a multicolored glow.

“Let’s go!” Aimee laughed, pulling Ilyana’s arm. “The city at night! I nearly forgot its beauty. What splendors will it hold?” Ilyana looked hesitant but with a nervous glance at the front gate, she obeyed the merchant’s tugging.

“Gosh, it’ll take ages to clear out all that smoke,” Mia complained.

“Let’s hope the fire is no danger,” Titania said, her arms folded. “I wonder what could have happened?”

“I guess that means no dinner tonight?” Boyd grumbled.

“You know, I thought I saw a nice-looking restaurant just a couple blocks from here,” Brom said, rubbing his chin. “I’ve always wanted to try big city cuisine.”

Gatrie threw an arm around each man’s shoulders. “Then what are we waiting around here for? The fates have spoken. Tonight, we treat ourselves!” He laughed with his mouth exaggeratedly wide.

Soren didn’t stick around to hear any more. As he’d hoped, the trifles of his comrades would be his cover. With just a little chaos, Soren had diverted eyes and created opportunity. Now he could disappear.

He ran down streets and forgotten alleys. He even crossed underground into the waste-filled tunnel system. The poor folk used it to navigate between the homes and business they served, as well as enter and exit the city each day. Such were they able to return to their hovels on the outskirts without marring the sparkling streets with their presence.

The tunnels were warm and damp, but aboveground, the air was cool. The night sky was clear, and yet the stars seemed muted and fewer compared to the lights of the city. Narrow streets with high stone walls cast him in shadow, while overhead shone the eerie colors of candlelight filtered through stained glass windows.

The silence of the night was broken by the tinkle of distant fountains and the sound of people guffawing in restaurants and gambling houses. Music played from the occasional mansion—either a single nobleman’s daughter practicing her flute, or an entire orchestra someone had hired to show off their wealth. Soren even passed a theater from which arose applause so loud, it seemed the circular building had somehow harnessed a waterfall.

Soren, however, flitted noiselessly down the paths he’d memorized. Finally, he reached the Mainal Cathedral. Two guards slouched near the entrance to the catacombs, each standing in front of a torch bracketed to the wall. These cast spheres of warm light and made the guards’ shadows long.

One was muttering groggily to his companion, who yawned loudly in reply. He had his helmet tipped over his eyes and his arms folded. Soren had concocted several strategies with which he might approach the puzzle before him, so he began by testing the waters. Picking up a rock, he tossed it into a nearby alley. It clattered, echoing strangely before landing in a puddle.

“Someone there?” the mutterer asked in a raised voice, but he didn’t move from his post to investigate. The sleeper didn’t even lift his helmet.

Soren tried a different tactic. He withdrew his tome and whispered the same fire spell he’d used in the kitchens. The torch behind the sleeper suddenly flared. This got the mutterer’s attention, and he leapt away in fright. “Behind you!” he called, and the sleeper lurched awkwardly from the wall.

“Is it a bug?” he warbled, waving his arms.

Soren had released the spell almost immediately, so the fire had returned to normal. The mutterer approached the torch and tapped its handle a couple times, causing a cascade of sparks. “Not a bug. The torch got real bright.”

The sleeper yawned. “You imagining things again?”

Satisfied that playing with the torches would be the right approach, Soren proceeded with his plan to break the lock. Focusing his mind, Soren recalled the time when casting small wind spells with pin-point accuracy had been the staple of his survival. So much had changed in the past four years, but he’d never neglected practicing this skill. Bringing his fingers together and focusing his mind, Soren whispered the incantation slowly and carefully, feeling as if he were pushing the magic through a narrow hole. Then he delivered the spell with as much force as he could muster.

The lance of wind sliced through the air from him to the double doors, hitting the center where they touched, and cutting through the lock’s internal mechanism. Soren thought he heard a small clunk as the metal holdings fell to the floor inside. The wooden doors gave only the slightest shake from the infiltration.

It was no more than if a slight breeze had pushed them, but that didn’t mean the guards hadn’t noticed. “Did you see that!” the mutterer yelped.

“See what?” the sleeper groaned.

“I think it was a ghost! It rushed right at me! You know what they say about the catacombs, right?”

The sleeper sighed. “You’re letting your imagination get the better of you. Nothing down there but dusty old books.”

Soren went back to the torches. Uttering the fire spell twice in rapid succession, he made both torches flare and held the flames high for several seconds.

The mutterer moaned as if resigned to death by an unruly spirit and edged closer to his companion. The sleeper, meanwhile, righted his helmet and stared in confusion. After holding the spells for a few seconds, Soren released them. The flames returned to normal.

“Now you had to see that, didn’t you!” the mutterer cried.

“Must be something wonky with the oil they use,” the sleeper shrugged.

Soren flipped to the section of his tome that still contained a few dousing spells. He uttered one and managed to make both torches flicker out.

The mutterer yelped, and Soren ran as swiftly and silently as he could. In black clothes and padded shoes, he darted past the guards. Until their eyes adjusted, the night would be totally dark to all of them, and although Soren as was nearly as blinded, he had fairly good instincts and had marked the door in his mind. He ran to it and slipped in, even being careful to step over the broken metal on the other side so as not to make a sound. He closed the door as carefully as possible, just in time to hear the mutterer whisper in fear: “Did you- Did you feel that? The ghost flew right by me again!”

“Oh shut up and get your flint out,” the sleeper replied.

Soren released a small breath of relief. He was in. Turning to the room at his back, he allowed his eyes to adjust. This was the main atrium, off which branched libraries, exhibits, and rooms for worship. He approached the main desk, which was lit by starlight streaming through a high window. Here he found a lantern, a map, and on a hook under the desk, a ring of keys.

Lighting the lantern with fire magic, he made for the stairs. After the first flight downward, the way branch in two directions: Archives and Tombs. Naturally, he pursued the archives. After another long flight of worn stone steps, Soren could tell he was deep underground. The stairs continued, but he turned down the hall here and entered a labyrinth of shelves and rooms.

His footsteps echoed softly despite his attempts to quiet them, and his own shadow flickering in the lanternlight was enough to make the tiny hairs on his neck and arms stand on end. But he gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he wasn’t one to be spooked so easily.

Little brass plaques marked the chambers he passed. Most were open archways or branching tunnels, but some were locked doors. If the label interested him, Soren would cycle through his ring of keys until he found the right one. In the rooms he traversed, he found innumerable scrolls and books. They lined shelves and tables, filled chests and glass display cases. Ancient weaponry and armor, faded works of art, fractured stone tablets, and framed documents with illegible writing adorned the walls.

Soren ran his eyes over these things with a passing interest. Perhaps if he’d had all the time in the world, he could spend it here, unravelling the secrets of the Tellius, and be content. But he had only tonight, and he had only one question: _Who am I?_

He wandered for hours, trying to understand the organizational system and tracking down the texts he needed in the rooms and on the shelves that were relevant to his search. He crouched in corners beside stacks of books or sat at tables with scrolls laid open all around him. He read as fast as he could, forcing his eyes over the lines of text. He was frustrated whenever he met a dead end or a book he needed was written in the ancient language—or worse, written the common tongue and yet so faded by time that he couldn’t read a word of it.

At first, he tried to clean up after himself, replacing every book. But as the hours wore on fruitlessly, he didn’t care for secrecy anymore. His throat was parched, his stomach grumbled, and he was thoroughly exhausted, but he didn’t take a single break. This was his only chance.

Established scholarship on the Branded was scarce, and what little he found, he already knew. He also sought to learn everything he could about laguz, beorc, Spirit Charmers, tattoos, birthmarks, and all sorts of physical abnormalities. He even strayed into myths and folklore. However, his search only began bearing fruits when he began reading the diaries, journals, and legal testimonies of doctors and slaveholders concerning their subhuman slaves—or more specifically, their slaves’ offspring, which on occasion, would be born without the proper subhuman features. Still other documents revealed the scandal of daughters bearing strange children out of wedlock, or worse, into a safe family but appearing different than their siblings. These infants were marked.

These were the tales of the Branded, even if they were rarely given that name. Soren read even more ravenously, horrified and disgusted by the scenes painted in his mind.

Not long ago, when slavery had thrived in Begnion, beorc and laguz had existed closely together for almost four hundred years. In these journals, scholars and slavers ashamedly acknowledged that scandals such as these were becoming more common: humans high on power and violence raping subhuman slaves, and subhumans escaping their chains to rape their lovely human owners. Sometimes the curse skipped a generation or two, and it wasn’t until decades later than the sins of the parent or grandparent were realized.

When a Branded child was born, a secret investigation was conducted—the only evidence of which were the fragments Soren had collected in these archives. If discovered, the human (whether culprit or victim) became a social outcast, disowned by their family. Or, if the family truly loved them, arrangements were made to cover the whole thing up. As for the subhumans, they were always slaughtered. According to the texts, the females were useless after bearing a cursed child, either unwilling or unable to ever transform again.

As for the unholy offspring, the half-breeds, the Branded—they were usually slaughtered too. Many were killed within a few hours or days of their birth, as soon as the mark was discovered. Others were killed even earlier, when it became known by what disgusting crime the woman had been impregnated. Rare few were allowed to live a few years, usually because a midwife or nurse took pains to hide the child’s mark. But in the end, these too would be discovered and killed.

If allowed to survive, the Branded were thought to bring bad luck, death, and ruin to the estates where they were born. Sometimes killing the infant would not be enough to absolve the sin in Ashera’s eyes. One text told of priests coming to cleanse the land with fire and prayer and to redeem the family with payments of animal sacrifices and human bloodletting.

Soren shivered and opened another journal. This one described how the slaves dealt with such a child when it was born into their community. In some ways, it was worse. As soon as the umbilical cord was cut, the child was left on the ground. The subhumans pretended not to see it, not to hear its mewling cries. Without milk to sustain it, the abomination would die, but the subhumans would never remove the body, letting it decompose in the open. They would never acknowledge that it had existed. The mothers of such children became lethargic and depressed. They wasted away or took their own lives, if they were not killed by their human masters first.

Soren set down the journal—the last he’d pulled from the shelf. He didn’t know how many hours had passed, but his lantern was nearly out of oil, which meant if it was not already morning, it would be soon. He knew he should leave but could hardly move. He tried to collect his thoughts. What did he know?

For one, birthmarks never looked like the one on his forehead. There was no record of any defect appearing on the skin with such distinct red lines (unless he counted the Branded). Neither was there record of a spirit ever making a pact with a newborn and therefore a beorc being born a Spirit Charmer. Such things were only theorized. Additionally, there was no known clan in all of Tellius that tattooed its members with the design of Soren’s mark.

As for the Branded, the laguz called them ‘Parentless’ and ignored their existence entirely, just as Soren had been ignored in Gallia all those years ago. And as he’d learned in Temple Asic, Branded children were thought to age slowly. But few had grown to maturity, so this was unconfirmed. The Branded were also believed to possess heighted senses and instincts, but not to the degree of laguz. And there were myths of the Branded developing special skills early in life, such as a predisposition for certain type of elemental, light, or dark magic, a talent for manipulating others’ emotions, or the ability to heal miraculously. Others were physically-minded: learning manual tasks quickly, such as throwing knives with perfect accuracy after brief tutelage or mastering the sword at a young age. These were more fairytales than fact, but Soren couldn’t help but recall Sileas’s bitter pride at his aptitude for wind magic.

Bile rose in this throat. It seemed undeniable. There was no excuse he could make; there was no other explanation he could find. Of all the grotesque things Soren had read tonight, nothing compared to the revulsion he felt at his own body in this moment.

His mouth was dry. His legs were limp. His arms dangled. His palms were clammy. He smelled of sweat and lantern smoke. He was paralyzed by the realization that Greil and Sileas had been right. He was a Branded. The townsfolk in Nevassa who’d been cruel to him, they had been right. He was a monster. Galina, who’d housed him even while she despised him, had been right. He was cursed.

Soren didn’t know what to do, but part of him considered the possibility of never emerging from these dark catacombs again. _How could I?_ he wondered, _How can I face the other mercenaries now? How can I face Ike?_

The thought of his friend made his heart ache as if it were being crushed. He imagined Ike looking at him while pity and disgust played on his face. He imagined Ike averting his eyes, unable to keep looking. Tears welled at the corners of Soren’s own eyes. He touched them in surprise—he hadn’t cried since joining the Greil Mercenaries.

His lantern was starting to flicker out. He wouldn’t have enough oil to guide him out of the archives. Did he even want to leave? Soren imagined Ike and the others finding him gone in the morning. Days would pass without him returning. Ike would be sad.

He gasped, the pain in his chest and in his mind and in his throat becoming too much to bear. He had to go back, because Ike would miss him if he suddenly disappeared. He would worry. He wouldn’t know the reason. He would think it was somehow connected to his failing as a commander, his failing as a friend.

Ike’s words at Castle Gebal came flooding back to him as if he were standing in the dusty room with him now: “You’re not going to leave me, are you, Soren?”

He smiled and grimaced at the same time, his mouth aching in confusion. He dropped his head in his hands. He had to go back. He had a job to do. He was loyal to Ike. He wouldn’t abandon him now.

Time passed, and his tears dried. His pain faded, and his breathing quieted. He became conscious of his surroundings again, and standing from his chair, he began closing scrolls and stacking books. That was when he heard footsteps. There was just one set, and they were slow. Soren’s heart raced. His mind conjured lies to excuse his presence here. He pulled his tome close, ready to defend himself if need be, and stepped away from his sputtering light.

An old man entered the room holding aloft a large, brighter lantern. Soren winced at the light. The man bent down to pick up a book Soren must have dropped. “Are you in here? Sir? Ma’am? My inquisitive visitor?”

Soren didn’t answer.

“Do you still have my keys, by any chance?” His crackling voice didn’t sound accusatory. He coughed. “I must admit, this is not how I intended to start the day.” He took a couple steps toward Soren, and rather than be caught cowering like a rat, Soren stepped forward.

The old man smiled, pushing the many wrinkles on this thin face backs toward his dangling ears. “Hah, there you are.”

Soren took the ring of keys from his pocket and held them out. “I apologize for borrowing these,” he said flatly.

“No harm done.” The man accepted them with long, gnarled fingers, which brushed Soren’s own fingers lightly. Soren jerked his hand back in surprise. People were careful not to touch him, and he was always careful not to touch them in return. This was especially true with strangers, but this old librarian showed no discomfort at all.

“It is just past dawn if you’re wondering, lad,” the man said, shuffling around Soren toward the table. “The guard changes in an hour. If you help me clean up in the meantime, the new guards will have no idea you are not a patron who came in this morning.”

Soren didn’t know how to respond.

The librarian poured some oil from his lamp into Soren’s, and the glow steadied. “Did you read all of this in dim light? You’ll ruin your eyes, lad! Sure, it’s fine now, but give it ten years and you’ll regret it.”

“I…” Soren began, but he still didn’t know what to say.

The man edged around the table, cocking his head. “Now, let’s see what fascinates my inquisitive visitor, hm?”

“It’s nothing!” Filled with panic, Soren lunged to close one of the journals (not that the front label—or any of the texts open or closed on the table—were any less damning).

The man didn’t seem alarmed or threatened by Soren’s quick movement. “I see…” His eyes scanned the texts, and there was nothing Soren could do to stop him short of knocking him out. (He did consider this course of action but was too ashamed to go through with it.) Instead, he let the man continue: “Interesting reading material you’ve selected. Hm, I am familiar with some of these journals myself. Terrible, terrible things if I recall.” He began stacking the books. “But I have always been interested in first-hand accounts. Those bits of secret knowledge no one intended to be read.” He looked up with a smile and a wink. “They are treats for the truly curious, no?”

“I suppose,” Soren conceded. He decided to take the man up on his offer and began helping organize the volumes by the shelves they would have to return to.

“But I think that’s not what motivates you, lad, is that correct?”

Soren didn’t answer, but he froze. The man was looking at his forehead now. His gaze was steady; he wasn’t even pretending not to stare. It was all Soren could do not to turn away. He’d lived with such gazes his entire life, but now the pain felt fresh, the scrutiny unbearable.

“I find it’s a common ambition for many young men and women…finding out where they came from.” He removed his gaze and returned to the task of shuffling books and binding scrolls. “However, perhaps not the most practical.”

Soren was confused. “What do you mean?” he finally asked.

The librarian seemed happy that he’d answered. He smiled as he started putting books on their proper shelves. Soren followed with an armful, wanting to hear his answer. “Does knowing the truth help you, in any way, to be yourself any easier or to do your job any better?” When Soren didn’t answer, the man continued as if he found the topic quite scholarly: “After you leave here, will knowing the truth put your worries to rest? …Ah, I think not.” He bobbed his hunched shoulders. “Perhaps staying home and getting a good night’s sleep would have been the practical choice.” He took the book from the top of the stack Soren carried. “Truly boy, were you here all night? You’ll make yourself sick!”

Soren shook his head, oddly charmed by the librarian’s intellectual musings and bursts of parental concern. “I had to know,” he finally whispered.

The man smiled comfortingly. “I suppose you did. Well, after all your diligent research. Have you any questions? I am a learned librarian, after all. I spend more time down here than probably practical myself!” He released a crackling chuckle.

Soren shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to converse about the Branded, not yet, and maybe never. They continued to work in silence, until Soren had another idea. “What do you know about Daein?” he asked.

The old man seemed delighted that he had asked a question. “Quite a bit, if I do say so myself. What would you like to know?”

“History, geography, politics,” Soren answered. “I know the basics, but…you never know what detail might be the key to winning the war.”

“Winning the war?” the old man repeated, suddenly worried. “There’s a war? Oh, Mother Ashera, how long have I been down here?”

Soren’s mouth twitched into a smile. He didn’t say anything else, not wanted to spill any of Elincia’s secrets, but the old man appeared to be exaggerating. His expression normalized and he closed his eyes for a moment. “Hm, Daein…Ah, how about the suspicious circumstances of King Ashnard’s ascension to the throne?”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Soren replied.

“Oh, but rumors are just that—” he winked “—incomplete!” With that, he launched into a lecture on the demise of the Gerent branch of the Daein monarchy. This naturally led to a discussion of Daein’s plague history and quarantine efforts, which then led to one topic after another. Soren listened attentively, asked occasional questions, and helped clean up the scar he’d torn through the archives.

When the task was done, the old man shared his breakfast: water, milk, and cold flat cakes. To Soren, it was a feast. Then he left through the door by which he’d entered last night. Two new guards were on duty. One waved as Soren passed through. “Wow, you’re an early starter,” he said. “A student? Hey, stay in school, kid—or you’ll end up like me, just another grunt with a stick.” He held his spear straight and struck an exaggerated posture with his chin tucked into his neck and his tongue between his teeth. He was obviously fishing for a laugh, but Soren didn’t give him one. He kept walking without a word.

Arriving back at the mansion, Soren was able to enter without any guards stopping him or anyone asking where he’d been. He breathed a sigh of relief; his plan seemed to have worked. Walking the mansion’s halls, he discovered half the mercenaries were still asleep—having developed the habit of sleeping late after just a few days in the luxurious city.

Such a thing sounded perfect right now, so Soren returned to his room, where Gatrie, Brom, and Kieran were still snoring loudly in their cots. Soren slipped under his soft, cool blankets, and was soon asleep as well.

However it was an uneasy sleep, and he was plagued by nightmares: scenes from the books and diaries he’d read. He was chased through the dark catacombs by the shadows of dead infants. He was whipped in a burning wheat field. He was ignored by a woman in the Gallian forest, while he desperately tried to speak. She stared through him, and he couldn’t utter word.

Part of his mind knew these were dreams. Some were memories perhaps, and others half-collected truths of lives long past. But now they were only dreams. So he let them play out, and was glad to be resting his eyes at least.


	28. CHAPTER 28: SANAKI's MISSIONS

Rolf woke him around midday, and Soren got out of bed although he didn’t want to. He met with an imperial messenger, who announced the mercenaries would be moving to Temple Mainal today. He spread the word, ordering the others the pack, even though he felt he had no right to tell them what to do. He washed and dressed even if he couldn’t meet his own eyes in Herring’s gilded mirrors. He packed his own bag, albeit slowly.

Before long, Ike, Titania, and Nasir returned from their morning visit with the empress, and they were a welcome distraction. Elincia was not with them, probably having slipped off to powder her nose (or perhaps find a private place to cry). Meanwhile, Ike was fuming, and he quickly explained why:

Apparently Sanaki had been certain of Elincia’s identity all along. The past three days of interrogation had been nothing but a game for the royal brat’s amusement. Even more insulting and embarrassing was the reason she knew: Sephiran, the strange monk they’d met at Canteus Castle and who’d saved Ranulf from the Black Knight was none other than the Prime Minister of Begnion. He’d played them for fools instead of offering genuine aid. Soren suspected he may have even allowed himself to be captured on purpose. The Prime Minister had returned to Begnion two months ago, somehow avoiding the long sea journey. He’d notified Sanaki of Elincia’s existence, and they’d been awaiting her arrival ever since.

“What incredible nerve!” Ike burst. “To take advantage of our situation and speak down to us like that! I don’t care if she’s the empress or the apostle or whatever! I can’t stand her!”

“Listen, Ike, isn’t it possible that the Apostle saved you?” Titania proposed calmly. Soren didn’t understand what she was referring to (having been once again excluded from the meeting), but he listened closely.

“What?” Ike demanded.

“Titania is correct,” Nasir interceded, “Begnion is a nation ruled by time-honored custom and ancient conventions. You insulted the apostle—the very symbol of their way of life. The fact that you are still breathing is a miracle.”

Soren shook his head. Apparently Ike had blown up in court today. As loath as he was to agree with Nasir, he was right; Ike was lucky he hadn’t gotten into serious trouble. (Then again, he’d always had a knack for getting away with things.)

“I hadn’t realized,” Ike said, calming slightly.

“And as her escort, your criminal behavior would fall directly on your employer, Princess Elincia.” Nasir crossed his arms condescendingly. “If you had truly angered the apostle, any hope of restoring Crimea would have vanished in a puff of smoke.”

“That’s madness!” Ike stomped his foot. “They would sacrifice a whole country to satisfy their own egos?”

“Ike…” Soren decided to try his own hand at calming him. “This may not be much of an answer, but letting madness rule the day is the prerogative of nobility. The beorc divide themselves into classes, and with classes comes prejudice.” He could have stopped there, but he continued: “From the moment of our birth to our final dying gasp, we commoners are not allowed to defy the upper classes.”

Ike looked like he wished to argue, but just then, Elincia appeared in the parlor. She looked tired as she gently closed the door behind her.

“Princess Elincia!” Ike’s steps began briskly but faltered before he reached her. “I… I’m sorry. My ignorance does not excuse my stupidity. I truly am sorry.”

“No. I…” She offered a small smile and took Ike’s hand. “What you said, you said in my defense and in my honor. It made me very pleased.”

“Huh?”

The princess squeezed and released his fingers. “To see you so angered on my behalf, your words filled me heart.”

“It wasn’t as noble as you make it sound.” Ike rubbed the back of his head. He and the princess continued their conversation, but by an unspoken agreement, Soren, Nasir, and Titania decided to excuse themselves.

To Soren’s annoyance, Nasir seemed to be following him. When he judged they wouldn’t be overheard, he stopped in the middle of a corridor. “What do you want?”

“I thought you may want to know the kitchen servants were beaten for their negligence last night. Apparently they forgot to open the flues before starting the ovens.”

“Why would I care about that? It sounds like they were right to be punished. Perhaps they will be more careful in the future.”

“Perhaps,” Nasir repeated, but Soren easily detected his disapproval.

He considered walking away to see if Nasir would let him go this time, but while he had the sea captain alone, there was something he wanted to say. “Why are you still here?”

“Oh, I assumed Ike would have explained,” he replied innocently. “You see, since Captain Ranulf was unable-”

“Yeah I heard,” Soren cut him off. “You’re our replacement guide. But that’s not really what I’m asking.”

Nasir folded his arms. “Neither Ike nor Titania have been to Begnion. Even the Princess lacks any experience. Although I am a simple merchant, I do know this country and its ways.”

“So you’ve made yourself Ike’s advisor…out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Ike considers me a friend,” Nasir said as if honestly surprised and slightly insulted. “Would you think it odd for one friend to aid another?”

“The court doesn’t know you’re a subhuman,” Soren cut in. “They would never let you near the Apostle if they did.”

Nasir unfolded his arms, perhaps irked by the slur. “They have not asked, and I have not volunteered the information. Would you?”

Soren glared. He had nothing more to say, and he knew Nasir wasn’t so naïve an opponent that he would let his secrets slip now. After a few moments, he continued walking, and Nasir took a side corridor instead.

The rest of the day was spent moving the mercenaries into the capital building. Everyone was given their own room. The horses were moved to the imperial stables, and Marcia’s pegasus was given a space in the paddock with the holy guards’ pegasi. Jill’s wyvern, on the other hand, was given a slightly larger cage in the basement.

“He needs to fly! To hunt!” she complained.

“Sorry, Jill,” Ike replied. “But it might start a panic if people see a Daein wyvern flying over the city.”

She harrumphed and stroked the beast’s scaly snout. Soren thought the creature looked content enough gnawing on a cow’s femur.

A parade of beautifully dressed servants carried their belongings into each of their rooms, and the mercenaries were met with a level of hospitality they’d never experienced before. Rolf and Mist jumped on the big fluffy beds, and Sothe eyed the ornate vases and jewel-entrusted bowls with hungry eyes. Gatrie cried with joy when he saw that each room had been furnished with a bottle of Begnion wine and a box of hand-crafted confectionaries. Each room also had its own bookshelf filled with an assortment of random books, a desk stocked with paper and ink, a plush rug, a fireplace and a bed-warmer, a chest of drawers packed with fresh linens, a wardrobe containing fine clothes tailored to fit the occupant, a tucked-away chamber pot, and a bath basin large enough that Soren could lie in the bottom from head to toe.

He’d never experienced such luxury before, and his awe was compounded by the distinct feeling that he shouldn’t be here. He was an abomination. He belonged in the gutter, as he’d lived as a child. Back then, he’d fought against his lot in life, telling himself he could be more. But now he knew the truth. He deserved nothing.

Perhaps because of this, the fancy rooms and amenities felt like a trap, and he found himself wondering how long the mercenaries would be lodged here. Walking the halls and glancing through the open doors, he realized most of the others were struggling to accept their new surroundings too. Boyd was fighting with a servant, claiming to want to carry his own bags. Rhys was stuttering to another, trying to tell him he didn’t mind washing his own robes. Nephenee hadn’t moved from the middle of her room, as if afraid to touch any of the nice things. Only Jill Fizzart and Astrid Baum seemed at ease amid the extravagance, which must have been familiar to the young noblewomen.

The courtyard below their windows had been shaped into a training ground, and it didn’t take long for the mercenaries to discover it. Most spent the rest of the evening here, sparring until long after sunset and perhaps finding it more familiar than their bedrooms.

Soren, however, was still tired after last night’s excursion. Although he thought he’d never be able to read another word without a headache, he found himself pulling volumes from the bookshelf in his room. He took into bed a small text about the development of the wind- and watermills in Crimea, and soon fell asleep. 

Soren was prepared for another tedious day in the lap of luxury, but then Ike called him, Elincia, and Titania for an urgent meeting. The summons was a ray of sunlight in his listless fog. When he arrived to find Commander Sigrun of the Holy Guard also present, his curiosity livened his blood. He had something else to think about; he had something else to do. He was additionally gladdened that Nasir had not been invited. Apparently, there was some company business that still belonged solely to him, Ike, and Titania.

“Empress Sanaki is offering us a job,” Ike explained once they were all present. “Princess Elincia, as our current employer, if you allow us to take on side contra-”

“Of course!” Elincia replied before he’d finished. “I am well-guarded here, and I do not wish to waste your time…waiting for me.”

Ike nodded. “Titania? Soren?”

“It will be good for us to work again,” Titania agreed, “I believe some of our number are becoming restless.”

“I agree,” Soren added, “Given the possibility we will never be able to return to Crimea, I believe it is prudent to explore our prospects here.”

Elincia’s gaze fell to the floor, but her eyes remained dry. Soren remembered Greil’s request that he stop testing her, but he couldn’t help but assess her reactions. As for Ike, he was frowning, but maybe he remembered that he’d told Soren to always speak his mind, because he didn’t scold him. “Really, Soren!” was all Titania said.

Sigrun took over from here. She gave them the details on the job and the expected pay if they were successful. Soren listened carefully and started planning.

Sanaki’s mission brought the mercenaries to Osim River, east of Sienne. It was a winding, branching tributary swollen with the spring floods. But bridges had been built to cross from one grassy knoll to the next, safely bypassing the mud-filled gullies and fast-flowing streams. 

The Greil Mercenaries were charged with the task of eliminating a group of smugglers and seizing their cargo. Sigrun was not at liberty to tell them what the cargo was, how long the smugglers had been in operation, or why Sanaki had chosen them for this task instead of dispatching her soldiers. But she did provide estimates of their numbers and a map marked with their suspected supply routes and trading posts. That was all Soren needed.

He was glad to be working again, and he knew the other mercenaries felt the same. There was an air of excitement about them as they rode in modest carriages from the city to the small fishing village that would be their base of operations. Jill was ecstatic to fly her wyvern again, although Ike ordered her and Marcia to stay close to the ground and not alert the smugglers to their presence.

Titania, Oscar, Kieran, and Astrid were dispatched to investigate some of the nearest spots Sigrun had marked for them, while a handful of other mercenaries began asking locals about any smuggler activity they might have noticed. As an added measure, Volke and Sothe were given free rein to creep into any place they weren’t supposed to be and discover the real information they needed.

Soren consulted his maps and made alterations given the spring floods. He also noted the fog coming down from the mountains and riding along the river like a ghostly promenade. These were not ideal conditions, and the smugglers were sure to know the terrain far better than the mercenaries. It wouldn’t be an easy battle.

Eventually Volke and Sothe returned, having determined from two different sources the location where the smugglers were unloading their shipment today. Soren notified Ike, who gathered the mercenaries together.

There were twenty-two of them now, an impressive (albeit eclectic) regiment of sell-swords. They wore no uniforms, they didn’t march or walk in formation, and they whispered to one another idly, even while they stalked their prey. They were a far cry from disciplined soldiers, but Soren thought he preferred it this way. They were individuals, each with unique skills and each capable of making independent choices in battle. Some fought like knights while others street brawlers. They fought dirty when they had to, and they weren’t afraid to try new tactics, each one developing a fighting style of their own that meshed with the others’. Soren observed this even as he fought alongside them.

They’d only taken out a few smugglers before the alarm was sounded. Now they were assailed on all sides in the mist. The mercenaries chased the smugglers (and were themselves chased) from island to island, from bank to bank. But the mercenaries were adaptable. They learned the terrain quickly, and they stayed on their toes. The smugglers were decent fighters, but nothing special. The mercenaries made strong headway.

But their good fortune didn’t last. Soren heard the sounds of breathless snarling and roaring—like a dog on the hunt, if the dog were actually a grizzly—and he knew this battle was far from over. Apparently Ike heard it too. “Form up!” he called. “Something’s comi-” His words and breath were knocked out of him when the beast leapt through the fog from the bank of the opposite island. It’s claws bit into Ike’s shoulders, knocking him into the dirt.

At first, Soren thought Mordecai had lost his mind. This was a tiger laguz—Mordecai’s equal in size and Lethe’s equal in brutality. But this thought quickly vanished. This tiger was gray, not blue. It was also thinner and its coat mangy. It wore a thick iron collar with spikes on the inside, and there were iron bands on each of its legs with loops for chains to be attached. Its tail had been bobbed, the ruff around its neck shaved, and some insignia burned onto its flank. Even more surprising, this creature had genitalia and an anus—accoutrements usually missing from laguz in their shifted forms. And yet it had the shape, markings, and saber teeth of a regular tiger laguz and was therefore unlikely to be an animal found in nature.

Soren stared in disbelief, noting these things and trying to think of anything that could explain such a phenomenon. He’d just read quite a bit about laguz in the catacombs. Perhaps this one was half-shifted? The process yielded a weaker animal body but allowed the individual to sustain the transformation for far longer.

By now Ike and Nephenee had wrestled off the beast and sliced and stabbed it numerous times. The creature whined, growled, and bayed like a mad dog, but it didn’t speak a word. Nephenee continued to thrust her spear, and it stopped making these sounds. But neither did it revert to its human form.

“Why—won’t—ya—die!” Nephenee panted between strikes.

Ike stilled her arm. “Stop, Nephenee. I- I think it’s dead.”

“But-” She stopped and looked embarrassed by her overkill. “I thought laguz had to change back when they died. The crows always did.”

Ike shook his head. “I don’t know.” A chorus of growls followed by the excited whooping of the smugglers suddenly sounded from the next island. “More are coming!” he announced, gesturing for the mercenaries to form up, “Get ready!” Everyone turned to address the new threat. Ike sidled up to Soren. “Thanks for the help,” he muttered.

“You and Nephenee seemed to have it handled,” he replied coolly, “so I took a moment to observe.”

“And do you have any idea what they are?” Ike asked, just as four more of the beasts leapt through the mist. Two columns of smugglers with axes and torches were charging over the nearest bridges. Everyone started fighting again. It took two or three mercenaries to take down just one of the strange tigers. Only Mordecai took one on himself, and he fought with more ferocity than Soren had ever seen. After months spent in the laguz’s company, he’d come to think of him as a large kitten.

Soren tried to stay near Ike and answer while he fought: “I cannot say for certain yet, but these are no ordinary laguz.”

“Yeah,” Ike panted, “I can tell that much!”

They finished the battle in a panicked frenzy, and Soren was surprised when there were only a few enemies left. He’d found the tigers to be as susceptible to fire magic as regular beast laguz, and after passing this information on to Ilyana (who’d been making great strides in her use of fire magic) the pair helped the others defeat the remaining creatures. As with the first, none of these spoke human language or reverted to their human forms once they died.

After their tigers had been defeated, some of the smugglers turned and fled. But the leader remained to defend his cargo. Sigrun had requested some smugglers be captured for interrogation, so Ike shouted for him to surrender. He refused, so Ike cut him down. Now he called to his mercenaries: “We need some alive! Knock them out or immobilize them!” In a mad scramble, the mercenaries routed or captured whoever was left.

Rhys and Mist healed a few of them so they would survive long enough to be taken into Begnion custody. Then they were bound, gagged, and forced to sit beside their cargo: large boxes with airholes and, in some cases, growling occupants. Sometimes the crates thumped or moved on their own. Half were still on the smuggler’s riverboats, while the other half were sitting on land or in camouflaged burrows. Ike ordered that a perimeter be marked and guarded and that the boats be secured. Meanwhile Astrid and Oscar were sent as runners back to the fishing village so word could be sent to Sigrun that the job was done.

While they waited, Soren decided to investigate the corpses of the feral laguz more closely, but he could find no clue about what they were or how they’d come to be. Lethe, Mordecai, and Zihark were also investigating and conversing in hushed tones. Soren decided to approach and compare notes.

Lethe placed her foot on the leader’s skull. There was fire in her eyes. “This man…he is the worst of the humans. Filthy creatures like him are responsible for the suffering of my race. _Slavers_ …”

“So that is what you think they are,” Soren interrupted, “slaves?”

Lethe removed her foot and glared at him. She gestured at the ragged gray corpse of a beast. “What would you call that?” she snarled.

Soren kept his tone cool. “Would you call a yoked ox or a saddled mare a slave?”

“I know you hate us, boy, but you go too far,” Lethe hissed, seizing the front of his tunic.

He knew his words warranted this, but he doubted she would actually hurt him. So he remained calm and let her show off her anger. “For once I am not insulting you. I am merely suggesting that the creatures we faced were no longer people at all.”

She released him with a small shove. “Then they are worse than slavers.”

He smoothed down his shirt. “Have you seen anything like this before?” He moved his eyes from Lethe to Mordecai. He even looked to Zihark, who was apparently a laguz aficionado.

Zihark shook his head. Mordecai frowned at his feet. Lethe sighed softly, “No, never.”

Soren nodded to show he’d expected as much. Then he left without another word. He wouldn’t offer empty condolences or a shallow apology on behalf of his race. _No, not my race,_ he corrected himself. _I am not beorc._ His heart sank and his feet slowed. _I have to remember that now._ The idea that it spared him any complicity in beorc crimes was no consolation.

He returned to the temporary camp, where Titania and Ike were arguing openly.

“You know Commander Sigrun has strictly forbidden it!” Titania was saying.

“I don’t want to do it just because I’m curious,” Ike replied. “Whatever’s in those crates could need our help!”

Titania pressed both hands to her head as if distressed. “Sigrun said not to open them, no matter what.”

Ike growled under his breath and started pacing.

Titania seemed about to give in, and Soren was glad he’d arrived when he did. “If you open one, even to peek inside, Sigrun will not pay us or offer us another job,” he warned. Ike stopped pacing. “We must follow our employer’s instruction.”

Ike glared. “Then I’m going to ask the prisoners!” he announced, twisting around.

“No,” Titania put herself between him and the bound smugglers. “Sigrun said not to try to interrogate them. They’re Begnion citizens even if they are criminals,” she reasoned. “I don’t like it any more than you, but they have rights.”

Soren was surprised by her foresight. Usually she was just as ruled by emotion as Ike. “Titania’s right,” he found himself saying. “They have been disarmed and arrested. We cannot harass them further.”

“We’re not Begnion soldiers,” Ike pouted, “Why should we be bound by their protocol?”

“Because we were hired by the Begnion Empress,” Soren answered evenly, “and we represent the Crimean Princess. Your rash act now could jeopardize Elincia’s chances of winning Begnion’s aid. And conversely, our success here could put her in the Apostle’s good graces.”

Soren could tell by Ike’s face that he’d won him over. His shoulders sagged, and he ran his gaze over his assembled troops. “I might not be able to ask the smugglers,” he said with a sudden grin, “But I can see what Makalov knows!” He ran off before Soren could ask what in Tellius he was talking about.

He appeared to be running toward where Marcia was talking to an unfamiliar man with orange armor, frizzy pink hair, and a stub nose. Soren had noticed him in battle. He’d stood out as one of the only horsemen among the smugglers and certainly the only one in custom armor, even if it was scuffed and faded. At the time, Soren had ignored him, seeing as he’d had other opponents to best. Apparently that had been the right choice. If he was standing among the mercenaries instead of sitting in the dirt among the prisoners, he must not have been a smuggler after all. 

“Makalov?” Soren repeated to Titania, hoping she could fill him in.

“Another new recruit,” Titania sighed, “and the wayward brother Marcia has been looking for.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite the coincidence.”

“Not really,” she explained. “When Marcia was hunting him, he’d been duped into serving pirates. When his ship came to Begnion, his debts were traded to the smugglers, and he was tricked into working for them instead… He doesn’t strike me as very bright, but Marcia asked Ike to give him a place in the company.”

“And Ike accepted, no questions asked,” Soren finished the tale. “Of course.”

Titania chuckled. “Our little family keeps growing, doesn’t it?”

Soren gave her his best withering look.

A contingent of pegasus knights arrived to collect the smugglers and cargo. They were led by Captain Tanith who paid Ike and refused to answer his questions. “We thank you for your assistance, but at this time I cannot disclose the details of this investigation,” she said. She then reminded them that a condition of the contract they’d signed was that they were now forbidden from speaking of what they’d seen or heard during this mission. This riled Ike, but Titania eventually calmed him down again.

The mercenaries were ferried back to Sienne by carriage, and over the next few days they heard nothing of what had happened to the smugglers or their cargo. 

Soren was starting to get bored again, and being bored meant his mind had ample time to wander—to return again and again to the fact that he was Branded. That he was an abomination. That he had no place in the world. That sooner or later everyone would find out.

Luckily he was saved from his spiraling anxiety by Sigrun. She appeared before the mercenaries again, offering another mission. The objective was the same, but this one would pay a little more.

Ike accepted, and they travelled to a valley between two mountains where they intercepted another band of smugglers. These were easier to defeat, and once again the mercenaries were forbidden from opening any of the crates or interrogating any of the prisoners. However, this time it was less tempting. The crates stank but didn’t produce any growling or thumping. Among the smugglers there were only two feral laguz. Both were orange cats like Lethe, but collared and chained. They were so thin Soren could see ribs under their loose coats, and the brand on their flanks was different.

After a few days’ rest in Sienne, Sigrun appeared with their next mission. And so it went for months on end. Elincia spent her days playing princess in Begnion’s court, and the mercenaries helped by serving as the empress’s elite animal catchers.

That being said, on many such missions there were no animals to be caught. Sometimes the smugglers they tracked were merely dealing in tobacco from Persis or rare freshwater pearls from Lake Semper. Others were selling laguz paraphernalia including cured tiger-hide rugs, raven-feather cloaks, and dragon-scale jewelry. Soren didn’t know if these items were authentic, but now that he’d seen with his own eyes that laguz could be killed without changing form, it was quite possible.

On still other occasions, the smugglers had moved location or scattered before the mercenaries could reach them. When this occurred, Sigrun gave them a pittance for their trouble but they were denied the pay they would have earned. Without the distraction of a battle to plan, Soren’s mind would run away with him. His thoughts would twist deep down into dark places until he was once again pulled out by Sigrun and another job.


	29. CHAPTER 29: EMANCIPATION ARMY

After five months and countless raiding missions, the mercenaries found themselves at the edge of the Grann Desert in central Begnion. Soren gazed out at the unforgiving sand and had a bad feeling about this job. It was the first to have nothing to do with cracking down on smugglers or illegal buyers. Sigrun had used the word ‘bandits’ to describe the group of people who’d established a base of operations in the ruins somewhere in desert, and she wanted the Greil Mercenaries to confront these bandits and eliminate them if necessary. However, she’d told them nothing of their numbers, their fighting power, or how long they’d been entrenched at this base—all things Soren would have liked to know.

The mercenaries had just crossed through the mountains that encircled the desert like a wall, and now the flat expanse of sand extended before them as far as the eye could see. In the east, the land grew rockier and sandstone formations were barely visible in the haze. In the north and west, the crests of sand dunes loomed among clouds of dust.

Ike donned a cloth eye mask that would protect the top part of his head from burns while also shielding his eyes from the glare. It was an interesting replacement of the headband he usually wore into battle. The rest of the mercenaries tied on similar headgear or smeared a charcoal paste on the tops of their cheeks. Soren tied a strip of black cloth across the bridge of his nose and cheeks and pulled up his hood. It was hot, but better than being blinded.

With his hood in place, Soren adjusted the weight of the water pack on his shoulders. They were all wearing these small rucksacks containing an extra ration of food, water, and vulneraries. The added weight was annoying, but Soren understood the precaution. The Grann might not be Death Desert, but it was still one of the most inhospitable places in Tellius.

After walking through the scrubland for a day, the mountains that marked their entrance were almost out of view. Before them stretched the great field of dunes, and the ruins they were looking for were somewhere among them. Ike sent Jill and Marcia to scout ahead.

Everyone else rested while they waited for the airborne women to return. Soren claimed one of the few rocks in the area as his seat and peered into the distant sand clouds. Seeing nothing, he then he moved his gaze over the mercenaries. His eyes eventually rested on Nasir, who was standing by the water wagon, patting dust from the horses’ coats. He was apprehensive of the dragon, who’d elected to come on this mission despite the fact that he never fought alongside them. He wasn’t a mercenary, and yet he insisted on inserting himself into their affairs. This job had nothing to do with Elincia, so why had he come?

He was distracted from his unanswered questions by Ike’s approach. “Tell me, Soren,” he said by way of greeting, “are you alright?”

Panic replaced all thoughts of Nasir. “Hm?” Soren hummed as if he hadn’t a clue why Ike would ask such a thing. In truth, he felt he’d been caught red-handed in the middle of a crime. The crime, he realized, was existing.

“Recently—well, ever since we reached Begnion actually—you’ve seemed depressed.” His tone was soft with concern.

“Is… Is that so?” Soren didn’t know what to say. With everything going on with Elincia and Sanaki, he hadn’t expected him to notice. “How odd. Well, I can think of nothing specific that’s bothering me.”

“Well, if you say so…” Ike seemed disappointed and probably knew he was lying. For a moment it seemed he would push the matter, but he didn’t. He turned his own gaze to the desert.

Soren allowed his mind to wander again. He was worried now—worried that Ike and the others would notice something had changed. He feared they would try to find out what was wrong with him, what had always been wrong with him.

“So, it’s time for the desert!” Ike clapped his hands together, changing the subject, “Which is the best direction to enter from?”

Soren dimly registered the words. But his mind marked them as small talk, and he didn’t feel compelled to respond.

“Soren?” Ike coaxed.

“Huh?” Soren shook his head, knowing he owed Ike his attention, small talk or not. “Ah, yes, what is it?”

Ike crossed his arms. “Alright, now I know there’s something going on!”

“I’m… I’m sorry… I was—” Soren gave another quick shake of his head to clear it “—thinking. What is it you wanted?”

Ike’s expression became suddenly grim. He was looking at something over Soren’s head. “Well, I was going to ask you for directions, but it’s no longer necessary. It looks like we’re being met.”

Soren leapt from his rock. Two figures had materialized in the billowing dust. One had the stature of a child. The other was far taller; they followed the smaller figure with long, slow strides. Both were swathed in brown fabric that hid their bodies and most of their faces. Thanks to the color of the cloth, they blended into the desert.

Jill and Marcia were twin streaks barreling toward them. Marcia leapt off of her pegasus first. “Commander Ike, there are people coming!” she announced, all in one breath.

Ike jerked his thumb at the two cloaked figures.

Marcia looked embarrassed. “I mean more coming! Dozens.”

“Shh,” Titania hushed. “They’re here.”

The two people had stopped thirty yards ahead of them. Ike nodded to Marcia to show he’d heard her, but he continued several more steps before planting his feet.

“Who are you? Answer me!” the small one demanded. His voice was shrill like a child’s.

“We’re mercenaries,” Ike answered. “We were hired to take care of a group of bandits operating in this area.”

“More of the senators’ dogs!” the boy spat. Then he cried, in a voice shaking in anger: “You cast us as thieves so that you can murder us and hide your guilt! But we will not be defeated! Mark my words! The day will come when all slaves are free, and then you will pay for your crimes!” He pointed an accusing finger at Ike, and Soren was certain this was no more than a boy after all.

Ike cocked his head in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“No more useless words! Come, my brothers! Take them!” Upon the boy’s order, many more figures rose behind him, casting aside sand-colored mantles.

To Soren’s astonishment, several leapt into the air on wings, where they transformed into giant hawks and ravens. The ones on the ground transformed into cats and tigers. Sigrun hadn’t mentioned that the bandits weren’t beorc. Then again, she hadn’t told them much of anything.

“What? We’re facing laguz?” Ike muttered uncertainly, “I don’t like the look of this.”

Considering Ike’s soft spot for the beast-men, Soren decided to step in and remind him why they were here. “Laguz or not, it doesn’t change the fact that they are brigands. Do not lower your guard.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Ike snapped, but he immediately softened and shook his head in apology. Taking a deep breath, he turned to the rest of the company. “Everyone! Watch your footing in this sand. Take care and fight well!”

The mercenaries cheered. The laguz roared and shrieked. On an unspoken command, they both charged. Soren wasted no time chanting spells and dodging talons and claws. But he wasn’t so distracted that he didn’t notice the bandits’ boy-leader and his large shadow slip to the back of their troops. Soren squinted and saw the silhouette of a low building—probably the ruins they’d made their base. They’d been right on their enemy’s doorstep and hadn’t realized it.

As he fought, Soren determined none of these laguz were like the feral ones they’d been facing recently. Their eyes were clear and their mouths free of slobber. They cried out in human voices as well as animalistic roars. They were clear-headed and deliberate in their attacks. In some ways, that made them even more difficult opponents.

The battle wore on, and Soren also noted that these laguz didn’t fight and die like soldiers. They retreated when injured, and most would even stop fighting and abandon ground just to carry their comrades to safety. This served the mercenaries’ advantage, and bit by bit, they pushed the laguz hoard back to the ruins.

Finally, the dead lay in divots of sand and the injured cowered against stone protrusions jutting out of the dunes. Only one opponent remained, blocking the entrance to the ruins, where the others had retreated. This was the big one who’d followed in the child-leader’s footsteps. The child himself was nowhere to be seen.

The mercenaries farthest from the man started to relax. The fight was all but over. Soren’s gaze turned to where Nasir was approaching with the water wagon. Rolf ran to meet him, cheering, “Aw, thanks, Nasir!”

Soren scowled. The dragon was supposed to stay behind, waiting for the mercenaries to come back. Once again, he was trespassing where he was neither wanted nor needed.

But he wasn’t doing any harm, so Soren returned his attention to the final bandit. The man threw away his cloak to reveal he was indeed a tiger laguz. Although he was slightly taller than Mordecai, he wasn’t nearly as broad. His dark-green hair was wrapped in a white bandana. His skin was dark, and his laguz markings took the shape of symmetrical green stripes on the points of his jaw.

Ike was with Mist, kneeling over an injured cat laguz many yards away (perhaps attempting to speak with them), so Titania kicked her horse forward. “Surrender!” she ordered the tiger.

“Never,” he answered in a low voice.

“I can take him,” Mia said, passing Titania. He spat a stream of blood and spit from her mouth and leveled her blade. Soren knew it was a laguz-killing sword. The razor-sharp teeth of its serrated edge were especially effective against the beasts’ tough hides. It was designed to do as much damage as possible—therefore making it difficult for the victim to sustain their transformation. She’d picked it up from a smuggler killed in one of their most recent raids. Lethe had turned up her nose at the weapon, and Ike refused to wield it. But they’d found themselves fighting laguz, so Soren thought she’d been practical to keep it. Today it had served her well.

The tiger transformed, becoming a long, green saber-toothed beast. He roared, and Mia attacked. He was both stronger and more agile than the feral ones they’d been fighting. But Mia was fast, and she wielded that wicked blade.

Finally she cut his right foreleg out from under him, tearing the tendons so he couldn’t stand. But she didn’t pause to see if the attack had been enough, instead lunging to slash the hindleg on the same side. He jumped and twisted to swipe at her, pulling his claws through her skin in a single streak that extended across her back and down her leg. She cried out in pain, but it was too late for the tiger. He’d already been cut, and off-balanced, he fell.

He struggled, rolling and bleeding, but couldn’t get back up. Zihark lent Mia a hand, helping her limp away from the fallen beast. The tiger reverted his form, clutching his useless arm and sitting with his injured leg outstretched. “We lose,” he whispered.

“You!” Ike stepped up, having caught the end of the fight. “You’re the leader of this band, aren’t you?”

“I am...” The man bowed his head. “Take me with you or execute me here, I care not. But my companions…would you let them go?” He paused to glance up at Ike. “Please?” Soren thought begging seemed incongruous with the proud race.

“No! I won’t allow it!” cried a voice within the ruin. A beorc boy with bright orange hair pushed open the old, fractured door and came running out. This was the bandit leader, but Soren didn’t know which was stranger—that he was so young or that he was beorc.

“Huh?” Ike blanched.

The beorc, who couldn’t be much older than Rolf and whose legs were skinny and short, threw his arms around the big laguz, ignoring the blood that oozed onto him. “I won’t let you take Muarim!” he declared, and his prepubescent voice cracked.

“Stay back, little one.” The injured laguz winced as he detached the boy with his good arm and pushed him behind him. “You were not supposed to expose-”

“If you want Muarim, you’ll have to kill me first!” the boy yelled to Ike from behind Muarim’s arm.

“You’re-” Ike began in confusion.

“Yes, he is a beorc child. I claimed him when he was little more than an infant. He has nothing to do with us…subhumans.” Muarim explained, and Soren was surprised by the word.

“Stop lying!” the boy growled, sounding older. “I’m here because I want to be. Who’s the leader of the emancipation army? I am!” He then lapsed back into his more childlike demeanor. “You’re a big jerk, Muarim! Trying to cover for everyone and get yourself killed? I won’t allow it!” He managed to place himself in front of the tiger again.

“Little one,” Muarim sighed.

“Hey!” Ike threw up his hands. “I don’t care who the real leader is. A laguz who calls himself a subhuman is protecting a kidnapped beorc who claims to lead a laguz emancipation army? Do I have that right? Because if I do, I have absolutely no idea what any of you are talking about.” He crossed his arms impatiently. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on here?”

The boy eyed Ike curiously. “Fine,” he finally said, motioning that Ike should follow him. “Come in, and I’ll explain.”

Ike nodded and beckoned Mist and Rhys. They approached, both grasping their staves nervously. Ike didn’t need to call Soren and Titania; they were right behind him already. But before he entered, Ike glanced around and noticed Nasir had joined them. He gestured that he should come as well, and Soren frowned.

The six proceeded after the strange boy and limping tiger. Muarim was pulling himself along the wall, leaving a trail of blood, but he’d managed to stand on his own, which was impressive.

“I’m Tormod by the way,” the boy said once they were inside the dim cavern. “I lead the laguz emancipation army!” He seemed to be daring Ike to tell him differently.

“I’m Ike, leader of the Greil Mercenaries. This is my sister Mist, our healer Rhys, our guide Nasir, my strategist Soren, and my second in command Titania.”

“Mercenaries?” Tormod repeated.

“We were hired to eliminate some bandits,” Ike explained, “But you don’t seem like bandits to me.”

Just then, the smell of blood, vomit, and excrement assaulted their noses. They stopped dead in their tracks. Tormod and Muarim kept going, so Ike followed. Soren and the others were right behind him. The tunnel opened into a room dimly lit by torches. The ground was a mess of rags and old canvas. This was where the injured laguz had retreated, and where they were now desperately trying to treat each other’s wounds.

Mist and Rhys rushed to the nearest bodies: a hawk with a badly broken wing and a cat writhing in pain while another tried to force him to drink a vulnerary. Ike didn’t stop the healers from aiding the enemy. Surely that was why he’d brought them in the first place. Soren could only sigh and let it happen. At least he didn’t think this was a trap.

Tormod helped Muarim collapse into a chair next to a wooden table covered in debris. He sat next to him, and Ike and Titania took the remaining two seats. Soren stood against the wall behind Ike. They were in the heart of an enemy base after all; he didn’t think they should all be sitting. Nasir stood behind Titania. 

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on now?” Ike asked impatiently.

Tormod took a steadying breath. “First of all, we’re not bandits. We’re the Laguz Emancipation Army,” he explained. “We began as a coalition of self-freed slaves trying to free other laguz imprisoned by Begnion slaveholders. Now we’ve grown, and we’re determined to eradicate slavery in Begnion forever!”

“ _Slaves?_ ” Ike repeated in alarm. He glanced around at the injured laguz as if seeing them for the first time.

“That’s right,” Tormod replied with a solemn nod.

“But that’s in the past now!” Titania exclaimed. “Twenty years ago, all slavery was outlawed, and all laguz were freed!” It was just like her to be so optimistic.

“And as far as the general public is concerned, that is exactly what happened,” Nasir surprised them by saying. Soren watched his face carefully. Had he known what they would find in the desert? Was that why he’d joined them today?

“So there’s a portion of society that willingly breaks the law?” Ike asked in disbelief.

“The commoners obey, but there are still many laguz slaves in the homes of nobles,” Tormod explained. “Me and Muarim brought this to the attention of the senators, but they wouldn’t listen. That’s why we gathered other fighters. We break into the homes where slaves are kept and help them escape. Of course, the nobles can’t let this be known publicly, so they brand us thieves and turn us into wanted outlaws.”

“Alright. I think I understand your motives, but you’re not going to solve the basic problem this way,” Ike warned.

“We know that. But we can’t give up and leave them in chains. We can’t and won’t!” Tormod slammed his fists on the table. “The th’ocracy covers it up, but they didn’t just pass the Slave Emancipation Act because it fell out of fashion. Laguz never stopped fighting! For three hundred and seventy- _two_ years, no matter how they got beaten down and punished, they didn’t stop trying to rise up. No way are we gonna stop now!”

“Do you mind if I try to help?” Ike offered, and Tormod stared, confused.

Soren glanced uncertainly at him, wondering if he should intervene. On one hand, Soren could expect nothing else from Ike, whose naivety and willingness to trust made it easy for him to befriend laguz. On the other hand, Soren doubted Ike had spared a single thought to the repercussions for the Greil Mercenaries (or Elincia) if he angered the Begnion elite. Furthermore, they were currently in the service of the empress, and they had to be careful not to betray their client. In the end, however, Soren decided to hold his tongue.

“Huh?” was Tormod’s response to Ike’s offer.

“This sort of beorc behavior is something that’s been bothering me. I think there may be something I can do,” he explained earnestly.

Tormod and Muarim exchanged glances. “You said you’re mercenaries, right?” Tormod began. “What do you think you can do?”

“The apostle is the one who sent us here,” was Ike’s answer. “I’m sure I can get you a direct audience with her.”

Soren was fairly certain Ike had no such power and no grounds on which to promise such a thing. Thinking back to everything Ike had told him about his meetings with the young apostle, Soren assumed she hated him.

However, Sanaki and Sephiran struck Soren as a shrewd pair, even if the former was little more than a child. He considered the possibility that they’d sent the Greil Mercenaries here on purpose, not to wipe out the ‘bandits’ but to uncover the secret army and bring back their leaders for just such an audience. Perhaps this was something the apostle couldn’t count on her own soldiers to do—soldiers whose loyalty was split between her and the senate—just as she couldn’t trust them to end the smuggling of corrupted laguz or seize the evidence she needed.

On the way back to Sienne, Soren shared his suspicions with Ike and Titania. After a few moments’ thought, Titania agreed that Sanaki could be pulling strings. Ike thought a moment longer and eventually said it made sense to him as well. He promised to keep Soren’s warning in mind during the meeting. Soren was comforted to know Ike wouldn’t look like a complete idiot before Sanaki. (There were no such promises for Tormod.)

Even by carriage it took several days to reach Sienne. When they arrived, the mercenaries were eager to experience the comforts of Temple Mainal, to which they’d become accustomed these past few months. And yet they didn’t rush off to their plush rooms and baths. Instead they followed Ike, Titania, Nasir, Muarim, and Tormod to the senate’s main chamber. They’d sent a letter ahead, and the empress and her court were waiting.

Although Soren had been permitted in King Gallia’s hall, he had yet to be invited into the empress’s presence. So he had no choice but to wait outside with everyone else. They crowded in the foyer, unable to even press an ear to the doors thanks to the burly guards.

After spending the last few days with Tormod and Muarim, many of the mercenaries had grown fond of the boy and were moved by the plight of the ex-slaves. They were anxious to hear what the decision would be. The few like Soren who were not moved by their hearts were curious to know why they’d been sent to eliminate these people if they weren’t bandits at all, and what would happen now that they’d disobeyed orders.

Soren belonged to the latter category, but he was not so anxious that he would wring is hands at the door. Furthermore he detested crowds, so he moved to the side hallway instead. In the shadows, he leaned against the cool mosaic wall and took a moment to be alone with his thoughts.

Only a few seconds later, however, the sound of approaching steps intruded upon his silence. They ceased but were not accompanied by a voice. Soren’s eyes shot open. “Who goes there?” he asked the gloom.

“No need to be so alarmed.” A man stepped into the light of the adjoining foyer. He had sun-tanned skin, and his hair was an unruly, bright green mane. He wore a strange half-robe over his tunic and a longsword on his belt. “I'm...one of yours.”

“One of ours?” Soren glanced at the mob of mercenaries nearby. “Unlikely.” He’d heard they’d picked up a mysterious swordsman in the Grann Desert, someone unconnected to the so-called Emancipation Army but who’d taken an interest in the mercenaries’ mission. Ike might have let him tag along this far, but Soren was in no mood to make him feel welcome.

“Yes, one of your kind,” the man said slyly, but not unkindly. “I see that you pretend to be something you are not and have lived among foreigners for a long time.”

Soren’s blood ran cold in surprise and horror. “I- I...” He clamped his mouth shut and firmly decided not to respond. _This man is just crazy,_ he thought defiantly.

“Hmm…I see I've puzzled you.” The swordsman smiled. “I'll let you stew on what I have said. Let’s sit and talk next time our paths cross.” Soren didn’t breathe again until the man disappeared among the other mercenaries, taking a place near Lethe on the opposite wall. It took a several seconds to flush the adrenaline from his blood, and Soren was left feeling hollow and confused. He wanted to leave, but that would feel like defeat. So he fastened his usual impassive expression and rejoined the group. Of course, he moved as far from the swordsman as possible. Here he found the three brothers. “Oscar,” he asked, his tone business-like, “Who is that man over there by Lethe?”Oscar looked over the others’ heads. “Oh, him, he’s new, but Ike said he could join. Apparently he’s some sort of hermit from the desert. His name is Stefan, I think. I’m surprised he’s here. I suppose he must be curious about this whole ‘emancipation army’ thing too.”

“I suppose he is.” Soren nodded curtly.

A moment later, the grand double doors to Mainal Hall creaked opened and the senators filed out, escorted by red-armored guards. The mercenaries scrambled to make way and pretend they hadn’t been eavesdropping. The stuffy old men turned up their noses as they strutted past, but Ike didn’t reappear. The doors closed again, and the mercenaries waited.

After several minutes, the doors finally opened, and Ike, Titania, Nasir, Muarim, and Tormod joined them. “Well?” Soren asked simply.

“She’s given us another mission,” Ike reported, but his brow was furrowed. “She says she will support both the Emancipation Army and Princess Elincia if we succeed.”

“The mission is to investigate one of her own senators, a Duke Oliver Tanas, who did not show up today,” Titania continued. “She suspects him of slaveholding.”

Tormod grinned. “You know, that Empress Sanaki is not all that bad.”

“No, little one, perhaps she is not,” Muarim agreed.

“So anyway, Muarim and I will be joining the team,” Tormod announced energetically. He gave Ike a thumbs-up. “We’ll help you fight this duke guy.”

“We’ll appreciate your aid,” Ike replied.

Those nearest Tormod and Muarim cheered and patted their backs. Then began the mass exodus from the foyer. Tormod ran over to Sothe, who dropped his usual reticence to converse like good friends. Muarim approached Lethe and Mordecai, who chatted easily. Mist started prattling to Ike, and so on. They were all lighthearted as they returned to their cozy rooms.

But Soren’s mind had already turned to the dangers ahead and the preparations that needed to be made. He suspected the apostle wasn’t sending them merely to investigate. Spies were hired to acquire information; mercenaries were hired to do battle. Sanaki must be certain of Duke Tanas’s guilt and intend a rescue. Soren wouldn’t walk into such a mess without a plan.

He then realized he would be planning an assault against a beorc man to save laguz slaves. He shook his head at the audacity of it. He then counted the number of laguz and laguz-lovers who’d joined them since finding Elincia in those woods. _The Greil Mercenaries have become quite backward, haven’t we?_ he mused.


	30. CHAPTER 30: THE SERENES

The mercenaries reported to Duke Tanas’s villa in the early morning, a week and a day after receiving the mission. They’d once again been driven by carriage to their destination, skirting the mountains that formed part of the Grann’s barrier range. Then they’d been ferried by boat across the Miscale River. From there, they’d marched to the Duke’s estate on foot.

They were in western Begnion, near the vast festering swampland known as the Serenes. Soren saw the large, blurry ink blot on his map, but the land around him now was lush with the bounty of midsummer. It was still early, so a thin mist clung to the air, broken by spears of sunlight. Birds were chirping, and a few farmers were already out threshing their fields.

“Is this the place?” Ike assessed the enormous mansion through the wrought iron gate.

“Yes, it is,” Soren answered while peering at the suspiciously large number of soldiers stationed around the manse. Not only did they man the wall and roam the yard, they seemed to guard every door, window, and balcony. “It’s rather heavily guarded. Even so, I think a direct attack would be our best chance at gaining entrance.”

Neither mentioned the fact that this was supposed to be a mere investigation. A soldier approached from the other side of the gate. “Halt!” he cried upon seeing the mercenaries assembled like a small, colorful army behind Ike and Soren. “Who goes there? What are you doing? This villa is the property of Duke Tanas, Senator of the Empire!” he announced. “No trespassing!”

“I am Ike of the Greil Mercenaries. Under orders of the apostle, we’ve been charged with investigating the duke.” He waved the warrant with Sanaki’s seal just behind the bars

“What? The Apostle sent you?” His eyes sprang from the document, to Ike, to Soren, to the mercenaries, and back again. Finally he opened the gate, but once they were all inside, he raised a hand, saying, “W-wait here a moment!”

“Alright, Brother,” Mist whispered as soon as the soldier was gone. She had a small contingent of mercenaries behind her—Titania, Mia, Ilyana, Marcia, and Jill. “We’ll sneak around out here and see what we can see.”

“Good idea.” Ike winked. (It was the plan after all.)

“Leave it to us.” Titania smiled with a hand over her heart. “If we get stopped, we can talk our way out of it. Alright, Mist, let’s get going.”

“Yeah!” Mist cheered. She and the other beorc women were soon gone.

A few moments later, Soren spotted a nobleman hobbling down from the mansion. His eyes were tiny, his nose bulbous, and his skin pale. Sweat ran in rivulets down his many chins, and tight gold rings encased sausage-like fingers. When he got closer, Soren noticed he smelled overwhelmingly of perfumes. Duke Oliver Tanas was both a bloated corpse and a rotting rose garden. Soren pulled his lip in distaste.

“What is it I hear? That you lads claim to be here on the Apostle’s business?” he asked as if amused, but he couldn’t hide his fear. He glanced from Ike to Soren, pretending not to notice the other mercenaries behind them.

Ike was about to make some retort, but Soren nudged him in the ribs. He reclaimed himself and held out Sanaki’s scroll. “We have a letter here that bears her seal.”

“Hmm…” Oliver accepted it but seemed careful not to brush Ike’s fingers. “Well…I see. It appears genuine,” he admitted grudgingly. “Very well. Am I in a position to ask what exactly I am suspected of doing?”

Soren had to admit this rich pig feigned ignorance well. That or he really was a fool. Judging by his expression, he clearly didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Soren decided to knock him down a peg. “We are here by the apostle’s leave. Do you honestly intend to make us discuss this matter _outside_?” He glanced meaningfully at the soldier who’d led Oliver here and was now looking curiously at his lord.

“Oh!” Embarrassment blushed onto Oliver’s cheeks. “No, no, of course not. Never! I would never insult…” He glanced down at Soren in confusion—as one might do if bitten by something without teeth. “Please, c-come inside…”

The Greil Mercenaries were led on a detailed tour of the duke’s estate. The place was packed with robust art, and apparently Oliver wished to lecture them on all of it. Soren couldn’t tell if he was intentionally or accidentally wasting their time. The mercenaries fanned out and searched as they went, but they were carefully monitored by the duke’s guards the entire time. After hours of searching, they’d found nothing. Ike was finally forced to admit they were looking for evidence of laguz enslavement.

“Oh? Slavery? Me?” Oliver asked in disbelief. “The Apostle would honestly accuse me of such an unfashionable thing as slaveholding?” He laughed so confidently that Soren was now as certain of Oliver’s guilt as Oliver was certain he was going to get away with it.

Frustrated, Soren turned his attention out one of the parlor’s ornate windows. At this rate, the mission would be a failure. He wondered what Sanaki would do if they returned to Sienne empty handed. Meanwhile Oliver and Ike were arguing, but Soren ignored them.

“Ugh! Hey, stop that! Back off!” Ike growled, and that was enough to regain his attention. He spun around to see Oliver’s watery eyes an inch from Ike’s face. Ike shoved him away, grabbing his sword hilt in warning.

Soren intervened before Ike got himself arrested. “We have little choice, _do we_ …?” he asked pointedly. “I think it would be best if we left for the time being.”

“Hey! Halt! You can’t go in there!” a voice shouted from the hall. This was followed by the sound of a scuffle, and soon the door burst open.

Mist ran in with a soldier hot on her heels. “Ike!” she cried, immediately hiding behind him.

The soldier stopped by Oliver’s side; both were scowling. Ike mirrored the expression, once again gripping the hilt of his sword. “Mist, what is it?” he asked without looking away.

Mist’s reply came in a rush: “Ike, I saw him! In a room on the top floor of this building, I saw someone—I think he was one of the bird tribe! He looked like he was trying to jump out of a window, but he was forced back into the room.”

“Wha-what?” Oliver stuttered. His confidence was quickly fading. “What is this-this child babbling about?”

Suddenly the other women poured into the room. Titania had murder in her eyes. Unfortunately they were followed by more soldiers, who created a protective wall around their master. They backed away but had nowhere to go.

Things were heating up, so Soren tried to cool them down with some calm logic. He pulled Mist away from Ike, who seemed ready to draw his sword on the duke at any second. “Someone from the bird tribe? Can you describe him?” he asked.

“Um, he had long hair, and it was…sparkling, like gold. And his skin…it was so pale—almost translucent. Oh! And his wings—they were pure white!” Mist reported excitedly.

Soren nodded. From his studies in the Mainal archives, this sounded like one of the royal heron laguz. But they were supposed to be extinct.

Titania confirmed the description while additional mercenaries and guards shuffled into the room and took sides in the standoff. Soren could tell there were more people in the hallway: mercenaries on the right, soldiers on the left. Oliver kept retreating until he hit the wall.

“That can only mean there is a member of the Serenes heron clan in this place,” Soren declared, “According to books—” (of course he didn’t mention where he’d read these books) “—only members of the royal family possess white wings.”

Ike pinned Oliver with his glare. “It appears that there’s at least one room we have yet to see. What’s it going to be, Duke Tanas? You can cooperate and show us the room that you somehow forgot, or-”

Oliver didn’t let him finish. “Guards!” he screamed, “Kill them all! Don’t let a single one escape!” The duke moved more quickly than Soren would have thought possible. In an instant, he disappeared into a hidden passage between the wall and bookshelf. Something metal crashed behind him, and his crimson-armored soldiers stepped up to defend it.

“So this is how you want to play it, eh?” Ike asked no one in particular. “I thought it might come to this. Mercenaries! It’s time! We’re bottle-necked in here! Spread out!”

Everyone began running and fighting in all directions. Soren withdrew his wind tome. He’d been with the Greil Mercenaries long enough to know it always ended in a fight.

Darkness fell, and Oliver’s brilliantly lit mansion became an unusual battleground. His opulent tables and bureaus were overturned and made into shields and barricades. His tapestries were cut, oiled, and wrapped around arrowheads for flaming projectiles. Brocade drapes and silk tablecloths were ripped to shreds and used to bind wounds. Blood spattered a rainbow of carpets and plush rugs. Ancient weaponry was torn from the walls and put to practical use.

Soren tried to pace himself, knowing the battle would be a long, but he could hardly catch his breath between spells. Having purchased a sheaf of Thunder spells recently, he added crackling bolts of lightning to his repertoire of blade-like winds and balls of fire.

Despite the strain and danger, Soren enjoyed the simplicity of mercenary work. All he had to do was maim or kill the nearest enemy, and another would take their place. They all tried to kill him, but with no more or less animosity than if he weren’t small and didn’t have a Brand in the center of his forehead. When there were finally no enemies left, the Apostle would see them paid for their work, and he would be compensated the same as any beorc who killed other beorc. Yes, being a sell-sword, a hired blade, a tool—it was an excellent equalizer.

Therefore, Soren was annoyed when one of the soldiers seemed reluctant to do battle and suddenly fled. He was disrupting the equation of blood for coin, and Soren was forced to pursue. 

“*Spirits of wind, follow my hand. Blast their flesh*,” he chanted. The fleeing soldier narrowly missed the attack, but he was now trapped in a dead-end corridor. Soren placed himself between the soldier and the nearest door, successfully cornering the coward.

“Uh-oh. This won’t do,” he muttered under his breath.

 _Go ahead, beg for your life,_ Soren thought, but he didn’t utter a killing spell. He had to admit this soldier looked different than the others in the Tanas guard. He could have information, so Soren let him keep talking.

“Youngsters like you aren’t supposed to be fighting, you know?” He shook his head.

“What was that?” Soren snapped and considered killing him after all. He eyed the soldier’s scuffed orange armor and ratty green scarf. He didn’t look like an imperial regular. And judging by his dark skin and Begnion accent, he was more likely from Persis or Culbert than Tanas. “And who are you supposed to be?” he decided to ask.

“Devdan is not supposed to be anyone. Devdan was imprisoned for looking at the flower garden. The punishment for trespassing is to work here for an entire year—” the man shook his head mournfully “—without pay, unfortunately.”

“What then?” Soren scowled. If Ike were here, he would order him to stand down, but Soren kept his finger between the pages of his tome, ready to end this man’s life in an instant. “Are you telling me this so that I will let you go?”

“A moment! Wait a moment! Devdan does not fight children.” The indentured soldier dropped his halberd and threw his arms in the air.

Soren didn’t know what he despised more: how this man referred to himself in the third person or how he continued to call him a child. He considered killing him merely for these crimes, but he knew what Ike would want him to do in this situation. “If that’s true, then why not switch sides and join us? If you become a member of the Greil Mercenaries, we would pay you for your services.”

Devdan seemed overjoyed. “That would be an honor! Please, allow Devdan to join you!”

Soren turned his back, intent on returning to the heart of the battle. “Our contract is complete then. I will pass along the terms of the agreement to our commander, Ike,” he called over his shoulder, “Now, I expect you to do your best.” _Just try calling me a child again,_ he thought.

“Understood. Devdan is a very hard worker.”

Soren darted off and soon found Ike. He explained the addition to their group, and the openhearted commander smiled broadly at his uncharacteristic display of mercy. (It was almost enough to make Soren rescind the offer). But then Ike stared spreading the word, so none of the mercenaries would attack Devdan. Most of the fighting was over anyway. They’d locked down the final floor of the central building, and the remaining soldiers were fleeing.

“C’mon!” Ike yanked Soren’s arm. “We still have to find Tanas and that heron.”

Mist ran ahead of them. “Follow me!” she called, speeding down the corridor and up some stairs. Soren and Ike were right behind her. “It’s that room,” she finally announced, pointing at a modest door at the top of the tower.

“Hey! Where are you, Duke Tanas?” Ike called loudly, hammering on the door. “Are you in here?”

“Stand back,” Soren ordered. Ike obeyed, and he smashed the lock and blew open the door. Ike and Mist leapt inside.

“Ah! Noo!” Oliver screamed. Ike lunged but was too late. The duke escaped through another secret passage, one which was already open and through which he’d been trying to coax the heron. An iron-reinforced door slid shut behind him.

Ike threw himself at it, but there was no handle and the door was clearly wedged tightly in place. “ _Duke Tanas_ …” he growled.

“Who are you?” demanded the heron. He was just as Mist had described and undeniably beautiful. He looked more like a depiction of Ashera’s angels than a laguz. But his eyes gave him away. They were feral and furious. He clutched a burn on his right arm and bared his teeth.

“You’re the Serenes…” Ike trailed off as if surprised. “Are you hurt? We’ve come to help you.” He noticed the burn, which was probably the result of light magic. “Your arm—” he gritted his teeth “—did that man do that to you? This wound must be treated at once.” He reached out before Soren could warn him it was a bad idea.

The heron slapped his hand away, and Ike froze in astonishment. “ _Stay back_ ,” he hissed.

“But…”

“Do not approach me, accursed human!” The heron shuffled backward to the window. “Remember the genocide. Twenty years have passed, but I will never forgive what you did!” With that, he twisted around and jumped. He fell in a cascade of shattered glass. 

Ike lunged after him in defiance, and Soren pulled him back. “No, Ike, don’t be an idiot!”

The heron stretched his vast white wings and was soon gliding over the estate grounds toward a forest beyond. Soren realized it must be the edge of the Serenes Swamp—once home to the herons.

Mist was frantic, and once Ike had retreated from the window, he tried to console her. Soren sighed heavily, letting exhaustion roll over him. The battle for the day was over, but their mission for Sanaki was far from complete. They’d just lost both their quarries.

Having heard the breaking glass, Boyd and Brom came racing in with axes at the ready.

“Get that door open!” Ike ordered as soon as they arrive. “I want to know where that passage goes.”

“Aye-aye, Boss!” Boyd saluted.

Ike stormed out of the room with Mist in tow. Soren hurried after them. “Duke Tanas escaped! Sweep the mansion again!” Ike called down the stairs, and shouts of affirmation sounded back at him.

They searched the estate from top to bottom but didn’t find the duke. Lethe followed his scent through the secret passages all the way to an outlet at the edge of the Serenes. At first light, Stefan (who was evidently a talented tracker as well as swordsman), examined the churned earth and reported that the duke had taken a great many soldiers and servants into the forest—including over three hundred army regulars. The barracks behind his villa had emptied completely.

The mercenaries made camp in the overturned mansion, and from here Soren planned their pursuit. This included gathering intelligence on the vast swamp. When asked about it, the local famers murmured quick prayers to Ashera. They explained that it was cursed, that no one went there. When Ike pointed out that their duke had just gone there, they confessed that Duke Oliver Tanas was known to send his private soldiers into the swamp on mysterious hunting missions—always accompanied by a priest of course. They also noted that he would occasionally venture into the woods himself, but that he was safe because he was a holy man. Ike snorted at such an idea.

At around noon, the mercenaries were greeted by a large procession trundling up to the mansion. Members of the Holy Guard glided in a column overhead, and a battalion of soldiers marched on either side of three imperial carriages, each of which bore the emblem of the apostle.

Soren didn’t quite believe it until the child empress herself dismounted from the lead wagon. Elincia stepped down behind her—wearing some ridiculous gown Sanaki must have dressed her in. The pair were received by a hastily prepared Ike, Titania, and Nasir, but Soren held back with the other mercenaries. He couldn’t hear their exchange, but a moment later, Nasir was guiding them into the mansion as if it were his own.

The party conversed in the least-destroyed parlor on the first floor, while Soren waited under the suspicious eyes of four pegasus knights guarding the door. When the meeting was finally over, Sanaki and Elincia were guided to the encampment being assembled outside. Through the windows at the end of the hall, Soren could see red and gold pennants fluttering atop a pavilion that has just been erected. Apparently they were here to stay.

When Ike and the others didn’t emerge from the room, Soren went to them.

“You know,” Ike was saying, “Sanaki really is alright.”

“What do you mean?” Titania asked.

Soren sat in one of the over-stuffed chairs.

Ike nodded to acknowledge his presence before answering her question. “She is really determined to help bridge the gap between beorc and laguz.”

Nasir leaned over to fill Soren in: “The Apostle has just told Ike the tale of Serenes.”

Soren had heard the story. In fact, he’d read several firsthand accounts in the Mainal archives. Twenty years ago, the previous apostle—Sanaki’s grandmother—had been murdered, along with much of the imperial family, the Holy Guard, and the apostle’s retainers. Rumors had run rampant that the perpetrators were Begnion’s otherwise peaceful neighbor: the nation of Serenes. The citizenry had risen up to avenge their beloved empress, slaughtering the herons and burning the entire forest. The heron race had been annihilated. Some believed a handful of survivors had been granted asylum in Phoenicis, but numbers were never confirmed. 

The violence had lasted for weeks, and it hadn’t been confined to Serenes. All across Begnion, parties of bloodthirsty humans had hunted down recently freed slaves and anyone suspected of being Branded. Most were tortured and ‘purified’ before being killed. Once the flames had died down, Serenes’ vast woodland had become nothing but a putrid swamp. Only poisonous mold and lichen grew there now, and even those struggled. Despite the land’s uselessness, it had been absorbed into the Begnion Empire.

Titania looked distressed. “Yes, I’d heard of it before. It happened while I was serving in Gallia. It caused a lot of anti-beorc sentiment among the laguz. Luckily it was with Gallia that Crimea held its exchange program. If I had been in Kilvas or Phoenicis at the time, I am certain I would have been torn limb from limb.”

“It was awful,” Ike agreed. “But Sanaki is actually trying to make up for it as best she can, and she’s just a kid.”

“It is indeed noble,” Nasir agreed. “The wound she is attempting to heal is still fresh to many laguz, but the cause is much older.”

Soren wasn’t stirred by their words. The genocide of the herons had occurred before his birth, which made it history as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t a native of Begnion either, so there was no reason for him to shoulder the guilt. The same was true for Ike. That heron had been wrong to accuse him.

“Anyway.” Ike’s voice sounded optimistic. “She’s sending us on one last mission. She wants us to search the dead forest until we find Duke Tanas and the Serenes prince.”

Soren agreed they should accept the mission. It may not be their job to unite the races or apologize for Begnion’s crimes, but they were mercenaries and they would fulfill their contracts.

Soren watched dawn creep over the scratchy black branches of the dead forest. They looked like skeletal hands reaching up, trying to grasp the pinkening sky. The mercenaries were using the Tanas estate as a home base during their mission. The parlor he occupied was dark save for the two candles by which he worked. He was writing a report of yesterday’s foray into the Serenes Swamp.

Two fruitless days had passed, and in a few hours, they would embark again. Sanaki had stationed soldiers along the forest’s edge, and the mercenaries had been scouring different sections each day. There was no clean water or edible food in the swamp, so neither the heron nor Oliver could have gone far. Then again, the heron could fly and may have already turned about and escaped south. Soren could only hope something was tying him to this cursed place. Oliver seemed to think so, considering his soldiers were still searching day and night.

“Is that you, Soren?” Ike’s voice broke the silence. “You’re up early.”

“Actually, I’m always awake at this time.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re the one who’s up earlier than normal,” he pointed out quizzically.

Ike sighed and rested his forehead against the wall beside the window. “I want to finish our mission today. I think my nervous energy woke me up.”

“I understand…” Soren knew how passionate he was about this job. Of course, Ike was passionate about every job, and he inspired his mercenaries to passion as well. But this was different. He wanted to help Sanaki unite the races as if the task were personal. “These past two days spent searching for that heron have been frustrating,” he sympathized. “I’d like to think he’s in there somewhere, but…” he trailed off, glancing at the maps he’d been working on. They were covered in the marks he’d been using to track their progress, but the forest was simply too large to search effectively.

“I agree, and Duke Tanas’s men are still hunting away,” Ike grumbled. “They must think the heron is still there was well.”

“Assuming both Tanas and the heron found a place to hunker down within the first twenty-four hours and have since stayed there, the only place left is the heart of our search area.” Soren pointed to the empty section on the map. “That’s where we should go today. With luck, we may finally locate our targets.” Soren knew that was where the forest would be densest and the blight worst. Progress would be slow, and they would have Oliver’s soldiers to contend with.

Ike seemed to read his mind. “I get the feeling it’s going to be a long day,” he groaned. Soren gave him the report before he left, and Ike skimmed it disinterestedly. Sigrun had paid them thirty-five hundred gold, despite the fact that their last mission had been largely a failure. “We’d better find Duke Tanas today,” he growled.

The rest of the Greil Mercenaries woke up within the next hour, and preparations were made for the day’s search. A local priest even appeared with an offer to help. Apparently he’d been one of the local clergy enlisted for Oliver’s numerous expeditions for surviving herons. The priest was assigned to Soren, and Ike ordered them to consult the maps together on the way to the forest.

“Why are you doing this?” Soren asked, when the work was done. If the young man was still loyal to Oliver, he could be leading them astray. 

The wagon jostled as they went over a bump in the road. The young cleric winced, and Soren didn’t know if it was the lurch or the answer that pained him. “I have lived on the Duke’s plantation my entire life. My parents served him as well. I regret to admit they took part in the burning of Serenes twenty years ago.”

The priest returned to the maps, running his gaze over the safe paths he’d marked and the ruins he recommended they search. He said no more, as if that explanation was enough.

To Soren’s annoyance, he was forced to push further. “So?”

The cleric looked surprised. “It was a terrible sin and they beg for forgiveness from Ashera, praying in the agony of guilt to this day. I must help make amends for their transgression against the herons.”

Soren frowned. This sounded just like Ike and Sanaki’s motivation. They were not being logical. “You didn’t commit the crime. Even if you help, why should your parents feel any better for it? Under what delusion do you believe you should try to help them? What do you owe them that you would take a portion of their guilt? I do not understand.”

The cleric had sympathy in his eyes. “You’ve never known loving parents, have you?”

Soren was affronted but hid his emotions. “Indeed no. Apparently, I’ve been spared any illogical obligations for others’ crimes. We are done here.” Gathering up the maps, he dismounted from the convoy wagon. Fortunately, he stumbled only slightly and was able to join the other mercenaries with some degree of grace. He fell in step behind Mist, who was riding a brown pony—a gift from the empress.

Titania had been teaching her to ride since they’d arrived in Begnion, and she sat well. A small sword was attached to the saddle, and the sheath of chainmail she wore under her clothes shifted with the pony’s gait. After begging for three months at sea, she’d persuaded Ike to teach her the basics of swordsmanship (most of which she already knew from watching him and Greil train). Now here she was with a blade and steed of her own. A Heal staff was thrown over her back on a leather strap, and a Mend staff was latched to the saddle on the side opposite the sword. Soren found himself wondering what Greil would think if he could see his little girl marching off to battle. _What am I doing?_ he scolded himself. _What do I care? She’s not my family. I’m not responsible for anyone here._

Peering into the gloom before them, Soren determined that their mission had to end today. The sooner the mercenaries pleased the apostle and got out of Begnion, the better. There was still the war with Daein to attend to. There was business to be done.


	31. CHAPTER 31: HERONS

The mercenaries didn’t stop marching until they were deep the forest. The woods seemed unnaturally dark. The trees were lifeless. Mud pulled at their feet.

“I believe this is the place where we ended our search yesterday,” Soren reported. Ike held up a fist to pull the caravan to a halt. He then circled his hand as a signal to establish a perimeter. Elincia and Sanaki had chosen to join them today in their own carriage, which was surrounded by Holy Guards. The pegasi’s white legs and armored chests were covered in foul-smelling black mud.

Ike turned back to Soren, who’d already withdrawn the maps to track today’s search. He smiled. “I realized something a couple of days ago,” he began, “Even in this forest, you always know exactly where you are, don’t you?”

Soren said nothing. It was true that he’d developed a strong sense of direction somewhere in the course of his life. He was a far cry from the lost child he’d once been, wandering the sea of trees. This would normally be a valuable skill, but now that Ike pointed it out, he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His sense of direction was unusual—perhaps too unusual. _I have good instincts,_ he thought but couldn’t bring himself to utter the sentence aloud. ‘Instinct’ described the minds of animals. Soren had long chosen to depend on logic and higher reasoning.

“How do you do it?” Ike glared at the blighted forest as if it were a new opponent. “I think it’s the lack of color, but these woods are starting to look the same to me.”

“Yes, that is a problem…” Soren agreed, not wanting to draw any more attention.

Nasir approached, and for once Soren was glad to see him. “Ike, we’re approaching a large clearing. I think we should have the apostle and some of the others wait there,” he suggested courteously.

Soren and Ike glanced at the royal carriage and convoy wagons, which were sinking into the mud as they spoke. “Good idea,” Ike nodded, “Even if we find the heron today, there’s no need for them to tramp through the forest with us.”

The pegasus knights and half of the mercenaries were left to guard the royals and temporary basecamp. The rest fanned out with orders from Ike, designed by Soren. It didn’t take long to cross paths with Oliver’s soldiers, who were clearly more prepared today and had managed to arrange something resembling an ambush. This suggested Oliver was getting nervous, which pleased Soren. It meant they were getting close.

The pathetic human senator, the vengeful Serenes prince, and the guilt-ridden child empress—they were all actors in an amusing drama. Soren didn’t particularly care about the outcome, but he did appreciate the distraction. (After all, Ike couldn’t accuse him of being depressed if he found him hard at work in the morning.)

The downside, however, was the stage this drama played on. The dead forest slowed his feet and could confound his senses if he wasn’t careful. Some of the molds even released poisonous spores when brushed. Then there were Oliver’s soldiers, who crawled between the rib-like trees like glittering insects disturbed from a decomposing body.

“Damn, they just keep coming!” Ike groaned. “How many soldiers does this guy have?”

“There is no telling,” Soren replied. “He is a duke and a senator. He holds peerage, and that means he could command many men.”

Nasir crept over to join them, and Soren scowled in unwelcome. Even though he didn’t fight, the dragon had insisted he tag along instead of staying with the royals. “Perhaps we, too, should call in a few reinforcements,” he proposed, “What do you think?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Ike admitted.

Soren agreed it was a good idea and wished he’d had a chance to suggest it before Nasir’s interruption. Although it would mean decreasing the guard around the apostle and princess, they needed more bodies if they were going to finish their search before nightfall. There were simply too many soldiers, so they’d been forced to regroup and search as one.

“And while we wait, we could take a breather and reorganize our attack strategy…” Ike glanced around at the exhausted mercenaries. They hadn’t been attacked for several minutes, but Soren knew that could change at any moment.

“Let’s do it.” Soren finally said. “I’ll tell Marcia.”

“Thanks.” Ike nodded. “Have her ask for three volunteers.” 

Once Marcia had disappeared over the trees, Soren accepted a ration of hardtack from Mist and tried to gather his strength. They’d retreated to an area they had already searched, and it was unlikely Oliver would pursue them. However, they were no closer to finding the heron or the duke by sitting here. Soren was restless to resume the search. He was about to approach Ike and suggest they dispatch a small exploratory team, when a sudden high-pitched ring echoed through the forest. The soft peel seemed to come from all directions at once.

Soren glanced around, trying to determine what had caused the noise and if anyone else had heard it. Lethe and Mordecai had been sitting on a jut of stone, keeping their feet out of the murk. But now they leapt to their feet with noses raised and eyes darting. Several yards away, Muarim’s dark green ears were swiveling as if trying to isolate a sound. He furrowed his brow and whispered something to Tormod. Nasir and the swordsman Stefan were also glancing around in interest and mild confusion. To Soren’s surprise (and disgust), not a single beorc seemed to realize anything had occurred.

Lethe was striding toward Ike now, so Soren meandered his way to eavesdrop. Mist was currently speaking with him. To Soren’s relief, she was trying to explain a strange sound she’d just heard. If at least one beorc had heard it, perhaps Soren wasn’t so strange after all.

“That sound you heard, was it high-pitched, like the chiming of a bell?” Lethe asked.

“Yes, it was! That’s it exactly!” Mist confirmed.

Ike frowned. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

“It created only a slight disturbance in the air,” Lethe explained. “It could only be heard by those possessed of extraordinary hearing.” She smiled at Mist, and her head was cocked to the side as if impressed. “So, your sister’s hearing is on par with that of the laguz?”

“Wow! Did you hear that, Brother?” Mist glowed with pride and excitement. (Soren felt quite the opposite.)

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Ike cuffed her ear gently. She ducked and pouted. “A sound that beorc can’t hear...that’s interesting.” It was indeed interesting. No normal bell could have made that ring; Soren doubted it was a bell at all.

Nasir approached, and fearing he might accuse him of eavesdropping, Soren moved farther away and pretended to adjust his tome’s binding. But he was still close enough to hear, and he concentrated to catch every word:

“It is said that those of the heron clan are practitioners of seid magic,” Nasir was saying. “Perhaps this sound is related to that?”

“Seid magic?” Mist repeated, “What’s that?”

After his laguz research, Soren could certainly answer that question, but he left the role of tutor to Nasir and moved even farther away. He could just barely hear Nasir’s explanation: “It involves arcane songs known as galdr. The effects of galdr on the listener depend on the lyrics and melody. For example, it can restore lost strength and vitality to those who hear it. And if the singer is of royal blood, the galdr may be powerful enough to move the listener to extraordinary feats. I’ve even heard tales of galdr that could give one the speed to do the work of two men.” He chuckled. “The galdr grant many powers.”

“Wow…” Mist breathed in awe. “That sounds incredible, doesn’t it, Ike?”

 _Enhanced skills are worth nothing if they must come from a laguz,_ Soren thought bitterly. 

“Yeah,” Ike answered, “But even with all that power, they were nearly wiped out by beorc.”

“Right…” Mist became suddenly morose.

“Herons are highly attuned to the forces of balance. Even if they had the means to resist, I doubt they would have used them,” Nasir explained.

Soren glanced over furtively. The dragon bowed politely and took his leave of the others but stopped only a short distance away. He pretended to become absorbed by another task, but Soren could tell by his limited movements that he was not. His body was still attuned to Ike and the others. He was eavesdropping too.

Soren turned his eyes and ears back to Ike. “Anyway, we leave as soon as our reinforcements arrive,” he was saying. “Duke Tanas must not succeed. Let’s rescue the heron while there’s time!”

“Alright!” Mist saluted.

“We should head toward the ruins in the northeast,” Lethe suggested, “I sense something odd there.”

Ike bobbed his head. “Got it. Thanks for the information.”

“It is nothing. It is only natural to aid one’s companions.” The blush of her cheeks didn’t match the rigidity of her body or the sternness of her expression.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Ike smiled warmly.

Lethe dismissed herself with a salute that put Mist’s to shame, but there was also a smile tugging at her lips. The cat-woman had certainly changed. Soren glanced at Nasir and found he’d frozen in his task and was now turned toward Ike and Lethe. His expression was one of sly satisfaction. Soren didn’t like it.

Once Marcia and the others returned, the Greil Mercenaries resumed their search, now heading northeast. As expected, Oliver’s soldiers intercepted them, but eventually they reached the ruins, which made a decently defensible position. While the injured rested in the central tower, the others fanned out and eliminated any scouts who got too close. Ike sent Jill back to check on the royals and collect another three reinforcements. While they waited, Soren and the others searched for the source of bell-like sound.

“Hey, what’s this?” Ike exclaimed suddenly, and both Soren and Nasir ran to his side.

“What is it, Ike?” asked Nasir.

“Look here.” Ike bent over a splash of brilliant green grass—a square foot of life in the dead forest. He was spinning a large white feather between his fingers. “This is the only place in these ruins where I’ve seen healthy grass growing. And I found this.” He offered the feather to Nasir rather than Soren

“Of course,” he breathed, glancing around. “So this is where…”

“Where what?” Ike asked impatiently.

“This way,” Nasir replied, waving for them to follow. “Come with me.”

Soren didn’t like it, but he followed.

“What now?” Ike muttered, as if debating whether they were headed toward a clue or another setback.

Nasir led them away from the tower—and beyond the protection of the mercenaries—to another ruin. He was glancing around more assuredly now, as if remembering the area, when a sudden flash of white light suddenly drew their attention.

Soren turned to a stone wall overgrown with now-dead trees and calcified vines. On the ground in front of it was a puddle of surprisingly clean water, where the light had reflected. There was a narrow gap between the trees and the stone, and from here emerged a snow-white figure. Her bare feet stepped past the puddle and onto the brittle black ivy that grew over the broken steps. A cascade of white-gold hair fell over her shoulders, and her folded wings quivered slightly. She was wearing a flowing white dress, miraculously unsoiled by the swamp.

“A heron?” Nasir murmured. He seemed surprised, but he was right. Standing before them now was a royal heron—and not the one from the duke’s mansion. She seemed younger, and her eyes were large and soft. She glanced at the trio dreamily, and a stream of ancient words fell from her mouth. Soren didn’t catch any of it.

“Um…that’s a girl.” Ike pointed at her tactlessly. “Nasir, you said the male heron we met was the only surviving member of the royal family.”

Nasir seemed to battle his own astonishment, and Soren enjoyed his discomfort. “I believed it to be true. To find another survivor, it’s a miracle.”

The heron girl said something else and turned to leave.

“Hey, wait, please!” Ike lunged after her. “I must speak with-”

The heron princess dropped her dreamy expression as if seeing the world around her for the first time. She stumbled in fright, turned in a circle, and backstepped into the puddle. She uttered something panicked in the ancient language and promptly fainted.

Ike caught her. “C’mon, wake up,” he fussed, patting her cheeks.

“She’s lost consciousness,” Nasir observed.

“Even if she were awake, I think it is obvious she doesn’t understand the common tongue,” Soren noted.

Ike frowned at her sleeping face. “I wasn’t trying to frighten her…”

Soren said nothing, merely following Ike’s gaze. Like the other heron, this creature was undoubtedly beautiful, but unlike him, she was gentle and vulnerable. She almost didn’t seem like a laguz. The longer he looked, the more she reminded him of someone else, possibly someone he’d met a long time ago, but he couldn’t conjure a face or name.

Before he could ponder the matter further, a voice called him back to the present: “Oh, ho, oh! I’ve found you at last, my beautiful treasure!”

Soren and Ike snapped to attention, but Nasir was already calmly watching Oliver enter the ruins. The duke was flanked by five soldiers on either side. “It’s about time you showed your bloated face, Duke Tanas!” growled Ike.

Oliver pranced forward. “No mistake about it. That is the spectacular work of art I paid so much to obtain...”

“You claim ownership, do you?” Ike stood, holding the heron in his arms. Her wings and gown swept the forest floor.

Oliver stepped forward again, but more cautiously this time. Soren drew his tome and pressed open a page of unused Elwind spells. Nasir fingered the knife on his belt but didn’t seem inclined to draw it (or transform, which would certainly be more useful). Even if Ike dropped the heron and drew his sword, they were outnumbered and in trouble.

But Oliver didn’t give the order to attack, apparently transfixed by the heron. Something moved at the end of Soren’s vision, and he caught sight of Boyd’s backside as he ran back to the tower. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to wait long for the others to back them up.

“No wait…” Oliver gasped, taking another step. “Something’s different… This is…a female? You mean to tell me that yet another lives? How spectacular!”

Ike hoisted the woman over his shoulder and drew his blade in one fluid movement. “Watch it,” he growled.

Oliver seemed to get the hint and started backing up. “Men!” he yelled, “Bring me that heron, but do her no harm!”

“You’ll never have her!” Ike declared. Rather than placing the princess on the ground, he adjusted her so she was more secure. He held her in place with one arm and spun his sword with the opposite hand, perhaps as an indication that the soldiers not underestimate him. The heron didn’t seem very heavy, but Soren still worried for Ike, who at the age of sixteen, wasn’t quite large enough to go around fighting while carrying other people. Not to mention her puffy wings entirely blocked his field of vision on his left side.

More of Oliver’s soldiers poured into the ruins, and the duke himself disappeared. “Will this corpulent windbag never learn?” Ike sighed.

Soren knew they wouldn’t last long on their own. Apparently Ike and Nasir realized this as well, because they were slowly walking backward. One of the soldiers lunged at Ike, but he deflected the attack. Another of the soldiers was notching an arrow, but Soren planted his feet and cast Elwind to kill her. Nasir deftly avoided a lance strike, but he didn’t even try to counter.

Just then, the trees behind them exploded with splashing, snapping twigs, and guttural cries. The mercenaries came charging to protect their commander. “Form up, troops!” Ike called. “We must protect the heron!” Everyone cried even louder in affirmation. Then they fought off the nearest soldiers while making a protective ring around Ike.

The fight was long and hard. Dusk descended, and then night. The cool air sucked the day’s warmth from the forest, except for the pockets of swamp gas where the mercenaries were assailed by hot, noxious fumes.

Oliver’s soldiers came at them will an arsenal of formidable weapons whose blades and arrowheads were soaked in an herbal toxin called venin. The mercenaries had encountered the poison before, but only ever from bandits. Soren hadn’t expected to see imperial regulars using such underhanded tricks. Then again, he supposed honor was not a weakness known to soldiers choosing to fight for their local duke rather than their holy empress.

To make matters worse, both Titania’s old stallion and Mist’s new mare got themselves stuck in the mud where they whinnied pitifully. Their distraught riders were forced to leave them to fend for themselves while they continued on foot. As the battle wore on, the situation only deteriorated. Nephenee’s spear snapped. Mordecai ran out of energy and was forced to revert to his human form, barely avoiding fatal wounds as he retreated. And Muarim was barraged by fire mages whose magic was particularly lethal to beast laguz. He roared in pain as he burned but managed to cling to life. When the mages were finally vanquished, Tormod and Zihark rolled Muarim’s body in the mud to put out the flames.

All the while, Ike was handicapped since he insisted on carrying the princess himself. He did borrow some belts and strips of cloth to tie her to his back like an overgrown baby, but he still refused to retreat. He took blows so the princess would remain uninjured, and Mist was never far from her brother’s side, healing him even as he fought.

Rhys, meanwhile, struggled to save everyone else’s lives. He used his staff when he could, and when he couldn’t, he bound large gashes and burns or forced vulneraries and bitter antitoxins down his comrades’ throats. When he needed to defend himself, he would utter a spell from the new Ellight tome he’d picked up in Sienne. Even if he didn’t have the power to kill his enemies, the burst of light was a signal for the others to come protect him. 

Eventually the soldiers stopped appearing. The mercenaries spread out to search for Oliver, but he was gone. “Blast! Duke Tanas has escaped again!” Ike kicked a tree root in frustration.

“Ike, trying to fight with that heron on your back is not a good idea,” Soren warned. He was carrying a torch while the pair searched. The heron still hadn’t regained consciousness. “Why don’t we take her to the apostle before moving on?”

“We’ve finally got Duke Tanas on the run!” Ike argued, kicking another root as they walked back to the ruins. “I don’t intend to stop until we’ve captured or killed that monster!”

Soren exhaled his frustration. “I understand, but shouldn’t we at least let someone else carry the heron?”

“Truth be told, she’s unbelievably light.” Ike shrugged and adjusted her weight. “I barely know she’s there.”

“Is that so?” Soren asked suspiciously. It would be just like him to exaggerate and insist on carrying her.

“I think she weighs…” he said, touching his chin as they reentered the vicinity of the main tower. “Oh, I’d say about half as much as Mist.”

“What?” said Mist, who was attending Muarim’s burns a couple yards away. She stood and crossed her arms. “That’s not funny, Ike!”

Ike winked at Soren, who understood the call for back up. It was a game he wouldn’t usually play, but for Ike, he complied. “Oh, I see,” he agreed.

“You see? What’s that supposed to mean, Soren?” Mist threw her hands to her hips. “You know Ike’s making fun of me, don’t you? He’s just a big jerk!”

Ike chuckled, “Alright, maybe I exaggerated a bit. But she’s still lighter than you.” He poked Mist playfully with his free hand.

She giggled. “Well, what do you expect? She’s a bird!”

Soren felt his exhaustion ebb at the sight of such mindless teasing. Ike’s shirt was sliced to ribbons and Mist’s hands were covered in blood up to her elbows. Yet the siblings didn’t seem to notice these things.

Soren straightened his posture. As tempting as it was, there was no time to relax. As Ike’s advisor, it was his job to get the commander’s mind back on task. To his dismay, Nasir beat him to it. Slinking up to Ike, he said, “If this conflict is going to drag on, I think it best for us to call additional reinforcements.” Mist and Ike became instantly subdued. Soren felt a pang of annoyance but said nothing.

Ike ended up calling together the entire mercenary army, and the fighting resumed. However, the battles were not as intense as before, and within a couple hours, they located Oliver. He was surrounded be the remainder (and strongest) of his forces.

“Enough already!” Ike called. “Lay down your arms and surrender. We will let you live!”

Oliver’s voice rose from beyond the enemy lines. “No! Never! I’m not giving up! I’m not finished yet. Out of my way, penniless wretches. Your very existence is an insult to all that is beautiful!”

Rolf fired an arrow toward the voice. “ _Eeep!_ ” was Oliver’s high-pitched response. Fighting instantly broke out, and Soren began chanting again. He, Tormod, and Ilyana were using Fire spells now, and their magic lit up the night with sudden bursts of flame. 

Not long into the battle, however, Soren heard the peculiar noise again. He froze, letting the incantation he was composing die on his lips. Glancing at Ike, he saw that the princess was still passed out. If the noise really was part of a galdr song, it wasn’t coming from her.

“*Meteor bomb! Fly to my enemies. Know where they are and fall upon them in hellish rain!*” Soren heard a mage chanting and recognized the incantation. It was Meteor: a long-distance fire attack. Although he’d rarely seen it conjured, he had an idea where it was going to hit. He narrowly dodged the fiery orb and managed to push Sothe out of the way as well. “Keep your eyes up; fireballs incoming!” he warned the boy before sprinting off.

The mage shot off two more meteors before Soren came too close. He switched to Elfire but seemed to have difficulty aiming at midrange. Soren didn’t slow down, uttering his spell as he ran and delivering it as soon as he was close enough: “*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me.*”

When the threat was neutralized, he turned his gaze to the treetops. That sound had to come from somewhere. A sudden flurry of darkness brushed against the night sky, drawing his attention. Branches rustled, and Soren watched a large brown feather flutter to the ground. A terrible shriek rent the air and three enormous birds broke from the canopy. Following them was the heron from the duke’s mansion.

The hawk laguz fell upon the soldiers with slashing talons and snapping beaks. Soren ran toward Ike, trying to warn him. “Ike! Incoming!” he called, but the hawks’ ambush was hard to miss.

The largest was flying straight at Ike, but Soren was too far to do anything. He watched him raise his sword with his free hand, still refusing to drop the princess. He held his ground, but the hawk glided harmlessly overhead, ripping into the soldiers behind him. Apparently these laguz were on the mercenaries’ side. At the very least, they shared the same enemy.

“Who are they?” Ike asked when Soren finally reached him.

“I don’t know,” he panted.

Just then, the heron prince alighted before them.

“It’s you!” Ike exclaimed.

“Who is that you carry?” he demanded.

The princess began to stir for the first time since Ike had picked her up, and he rushed to detach her. Although he stood her on her own two feet, he was still supporting most of her weight. The prince exclaimed something in the ancient language. The princess whispered something drowsily in reply.

“How is this possible?” The heron’s ferocity seemed to diminish. “How did you survive all this time?”

Before the girl could make what was sure to be a meek and unintelligible response, the great eagle landed beside them, shifting into his human form before his talons met the ground. “Leanne? Do you know who I am?” he demanded, grasping her shoulder opposite Ike.

This man was surprisingly tall and broad—like a tiger laguz with wings. He wore black boots and white canvas pants (both of which were spattered with blood), a large leather belt with a shining gold belt buckle, and a vast green coat. It was unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest and a necklace of feathers. Like Nasir and Lethe, he was the kind of laguz who carried a knife on his belt, apparently never without a weapon. On his head was wrapped a large red band, over which his dark brown hair was a ragged mess, and on his left ear a gold chain hung from cuff to lobe. His laguz markings took the form of a white streak across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and a second streak that crossed it just below his left eye and extended to his neck. Scars and bandages crisscrossed his arms and knuckles, and Soren couldn’t help thinking he was the picture of a Phoenician pirate.

It was enough to bring out the child in him, and he took an involuntary step backward. Ike, however, held his ground, and the princess wasn’t intimidated in the least. She managed to pull most of her weight off Ike and twittered excitedly in the ancient language. “…Tibarn,” she finished.

“That’s right. You remember my name. Have you been here by yourself for all these years?” the man laughed heartily.

Leanne spoke again in the ancient language.

“The forest protected her,” explained the prince, who closed his eyes as if in prayer. “It kept her asleep for so long… There is no way to express my gratitude.” Now he murmured something in the ancient language that very well may have been a prayer.

“You there, beorc,” Tibarn said suddenly. He pointed straight at Ike’s face.

“Me?” Ike replied, caught off guard.

“I am Tibarn, King of Phoenicis,” he announced, and Soren could hardly believe what he as hearing. Apparently this was not just a formidable laguz nor a dangerous pirate, but the actual King of Hawks. “Since the loss of their homeland, the Serenes royal family has been under my guardianship.” He dropped his accusing finger. “Who are you, and why do you aid the herons?”

While Ike explained, Soren took this opportunity to look around and assess the outcome of the battle. It hadn’t endured long after the hawks’ arrival. Most of the soldiers were dead, and the rest were surrounded as prisoners. Oliver was in custody was well. Blood stained the front of his silk shirt, and he appeared unconscious. Rhys was tending him while Titania stood between them and the two other hawks. She had her poleax in hand, which was probably the only thing stopping the king’s henchmen from finishing the job.

Satisfied that things were under control, Soren turned back to the conversation. “She is trying to atone for the crimes of her people,” Ike was saying.

“No. I cannot believe that,” the prince replied angrily.

The Hawk King rubbed his chin and said nothing.

“Pathetic apologies and half-baked platitudes are easily spoken!” raved the heron. “Humans burned Serenes Forest. They killed my family. I cannot trust them.” He pulled Leanne away from Ike with surprising grace despite the rage in his voice.

“Please, withhold judgment until you speak with the apostle. She’s waiting not far from here.” Ike was clearly trying to contain himself, and Soren was impressed.

“The Apostle is here?” the heron asked in surprise, and Soren finally understood why she’d insisted on accompanying them.

Ike nodded, and the herons and hawks consented to be led back to basecamp.

When they arrived, it was the early hours of the morning, and Oliver had regained consciousness enough to be led on a rope with the rest of the prisoners. Marcia had gone ahead to announce their return, and Empress Sanaki—adorned in all her finery—was waiting for them. She stood alone in the middle of the clearing, with Sigrun, Tanith, and the other Holy Guards stationed several yards away, looking nervous.

“You…you are the Apostle?” the heron asked in confusion. He walked up to her while Leanne, Tibarn, and the other hawks stayed a few paces back. Soren, Ike, and the mercenaries hung back even farther.

“I am,” Sanaki replied with dignity. She drew herself up to her full height and then, after a moment’s pause, began slowly and deliberately moving into a kneeling position. Although she was in a clearing, the ground was still moist, and black ooze soaked into the robes around her knees and feet. A few tiny gasps rose from the Holy Guards. “I’m…sorry.” Sanaki bowed her head all the way to the ground. “I am ignorant as to what words of contrition would be appropriate to one of the heron tribe. Yet I stand before you as a representative of my people. From the depths of my heart, I apologize to you… I am sorry…so truly sorry.”

“Em-Empress Sanaki!” Sigrun sputtered. “What are you doing? You are the Apostle! You cannot bend your knee to another!” Even as she said it, the rest of the Holy Guards mirrored their empress. Those riding on the backs of pegasi immediately dismounted to lay their knees and foreheads in the mud.

“Let her speak her heart,” Ike countered. Sigrun didn’t seem happy about it, but she bit her tongue. She was the only one not to kneel.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Sanaki repeated.

The prince’s glare was unabated, but Leanne stepped forward before he could answer the apostle’s plea. She spoke in the ancient language, her tone gentle, and Sanaki clearly didn’t understand. She picked her head up and stared in confusion.

“Leanne?” the prince asked uncertainly.

Leanne smiled, said something else, and extended her hand toward the child empress.

“You… What is it you want? Are you telling me to stand?” Sanaki asked. The frail heron bent down and grabbed her hand more assertively than Soren would have expected. She helped her up. “You…” Sanaki seemed lost for words. When she stood, the Holy Guards all stood too.

“ _Leanne!_ ” the prince hissed.

She turned around and began chattering away in the ancient language again; her tone was calm but firm.

“You cannot ask me to forgive them! You were asleep… You don’t know what these humans did to us.”

Leanne narrowed her eyes. Her reply was brief.

“You…know?”

She nodded.

“Everyone is gone. That’s why I cannot release my hatred.” He switched to the ancient language, and they continued arguing for some time, until the prince finally said: “I understand. If that is how you feel…” Taking a long breath, he turned back to Sanaki, who’d been watching the conversation anxiously. “Apostle Sanaki, we accept your apology. We may not be able to release our hatred of hum- of beorc…but you need not let the fate of Serenes Forest trouble you any longer. You are absolved of that guilt,” he announced.

“Th-thank you…” Sanaki looked suddenly weak and fell to her knees. Ike jogged up and managed to reach her before Sigrun. He tried to help her rise (which clearly offended Sigrun), but the empress seemed to grow strong again and rejected his hand. She stood on her own.

Soren was surprised by the entire encounter. He didn’t understand why the princess had defied her brother, especially for a beorc’s sake. Certainly, she owed them for saving her from Oliver’s men, but she hadn’t been conscious for that.

For a couple minutes, the heron siblings conferred in the ancient language while the hawks guarded them with folded arms and steely expressions. When they were finished, they made formal introductions—the prince’s name was Reyson and the princess’s Leanne—and declared that everyone was invited to a special ceremony deeper in the forest.

When they arrived at a clearing at the heart of the ruins, the sun was a pale orb rising over the horizon. In the middle of the clearing was a large pedestal on which stood a stone altar. Reyson and Leanne mounted it and stood on either side of the altar, like mirrored statues.

The high-pitched chime Soren had heard earlier sounded again. But this time it was followed by more tinkling notes. The herons were singing. He soon realized these were the familiar sounds of the ancient language, but spoken in such arcane voices that they didn’t sound like voices at all.

The galdr grew stronger until he was sure the beorc could hear it as well. No one said a word. Even Soren was entranced. Before his eyes, the swamp began to change. In a shower of golden particles, the canopy became green and lush. The forest floor shimmered and sprouted life. Mudholes became purified and concentrated into bubbling streams. Colorful flowers, ivies, and mosses blossomed. New growth was everywhere, gushing with fresh scents. The air was suddenly much clearer and easier to breath, and it held aloft a fine mist that glittering with tiny rainbows wherever the golden sparks floated.

Soren couldn’t tell how long the heron sang, but he noticed the mercenaries relax over time. Dreamy expressions filled their faces. Their wounds were healed miraculously, and their exhaustion seemed abated. Goofy smiles and careless eyes watched the rebirth of the forest. If they were attacked right now, Soren had no doubt the mercenaries would all die laughing.

Suddenly the mist felt cold on his skin, and he shivered involuntarily. For whatever reason, he seemed to be the only person who felt this way.

When the herons’ last notes rang into silence, Sanaki sighed: “The Serenes Forest, beloved by the Goddess, is alive once more.” Similar sentiments were shared. Everyone congratulated each other, laughing in celebration, and the herons were praised effusively.

Soren crept to the edge of the merriment, and when he moved, he realized vines as thin as spiderwebs had grown over his boots. He kicked them off. Once safely away from the crowd, he overheard a voice he did not expect. Nasir was nearby, also observing the festivity, but he was grinning with satisfaction, not in wonder like the others. “Excellent,” he murmured to himself, “The gap between laguz and beorc has been bridged… I think this may be enough.”

Soren watched the dragon move away and didn’t realize how tense he’d become until Titania’s voice reached him. “What’s wrong, Soren? You look so grim.” The warble of laughter in her voice didn’t match her words. “What are you looking at?” she asked, trying to follow his gaze. But Nasir was gone.

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all,” Soren lied. He quickly stepped away out of a desire to lose Titania and possibly find Nasir again.

“Wait, Soren?” she called. “What in the world is wrong with him?” she sighed before being lost from earshot.

He didn’t turn around or offer an answer, but her words did bring him back to his senses. Everyone else was happy. He was calling too much attention to himself with such a dark mood. He couldn’t search the crowd as he was now. He had to avoid the eyes of suspicion—as he always had.

Leaning against a freshly moss-covered tree, he considered what this victory meant. Sanaki’s missions were finally over, so it stood to reason the war for Crimea could finally begin in earnest. The Greil Mercenaries would have a part to play, which meant Soren did too. He may not have understood Nasir’s murmurings or cared much for the conciliation of laguz and beorc, but he would do his job. This was just the beginning of the bloodshed, and he would make the most of it. With this thought in mind, Soren pulled his weight off the tree and returned to the happy mercenaries.

_End of Book I_

_The adventure continues in Book II_


End file.
